


find me (somebody to love)

by Quilly



Series: to go romancing [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abusive home, Background Adam/Warlock, Background Newt/Anathema, Cinderella Elements, Human AU, Idiot Prince, Inspired by Ever After (1998), Multi, ever after au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22191208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: You have all heard the tale of the little cinder girl before, yes? Good. This story is a little different.In which young Aziraphale Fell's world is changed when he meets the roguish, charming Prince Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: to go romancing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597387
Comments: 76
Kudos: 211
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Ever After AU! This sticks pretty close to the plot of the film, but if you haven't seen that, it's okay, this should still be an enjoyable experience (though do watch the movie, it's excellent). Expect a daily update schedule until it's done!
> 
> Title from a Queen song that features pretty heavily in another Cinderella-inspired film, Ella Enchanted.

You have all, perhaps, heard the tale of the little cinder girl, yes? Good. The account enclosed herein is just one version among many, though your humble scribe would hope the tale to have some twists and turns you perhaps weren’t expecting in a Cinderella story. Not all stories follow the same formulae, after all.

There once was a boy named Aziraphale Fell who had the privilege of a modest, comfortable life with his widowed father. Aziraphale’s father was often away, and so to fill Aziraphale’s time the small manor-house was stocked with books—sciences, philosophy, classical literature, and perhaps a tale or two of childhood whimsy that Aziraphale felt he had quite outgrown long before the usual time such tales are laid aside. Aziraphale’s mind was voracious for knowledge, and he soon found his understanding of the world beginning to broaden.

One day, Aziraphale’s father brought home two surprises: _Utopia_ by Thomas More, and a new bride. Baroness Michael was regal and poised, and the guardian of two children near Aziraphale’s age: Gabriel, and Sandalphon, the latter of whom doted on the former’s every word and action. Aziraphale was delighted with their genteel manners and proper etiquette, and the Baroness and her progeny were polite to a fault while Aziraphale’s father was home.

Men of business must often away, but a sudden sharp chest pain and a startled cry brought Aziraphale’s father far away indeed—farther than poor Aziraphale could hope to follow. And so it was that Aziraphale’s home passed into the hands of his father’s wife, and with his death it seemed he had taken all the warmth of the world Aziraphale had known. Baroness Michael, afflicted with a measure of grief and a more significant helping of horror at her situation in being mistress of a country estate of little consequence or fashion, threw open the shades of her noble upbringing and let her true colors fly at last. Gabriel followed suit, with Sandalphon lagging behind.

Aziraphale found himself relegated from the young master of the house to a servant boy in his own home. That was humiliation enough, but as Aziraphale grew into his plump frame, the jabs at his looks alongside his incompetence began to wear away at his naturally gentle and sweet temperament. His only respite was the books from his father’s library, the more sentimental tomes pilfered before they could be sold in the Baroness’ attempts to introduce economy and moderation to the estate (which took the form of selling some of Aziraphale’s more cherished pieces and using this money to bedeck herself and her sons in more finery rather than investing it back into the estate). His very favorite was the last book his father had brought home, whose gilded edges began to fade as Aziraphale grew up but whose contents were ever dear.

It would be quite some time before another friend would enter Aziraphale’s life, a friend who was as lonely as he was in many ways.

.

The Crown Prince Crowley hooted and howled with laughter as he urged his steed onward. The Royal Guard was gaining fast, but Bentley had a burst of speed left in her yet.

“Let’s see if we can lose them,” Crowley said, and steered Bentley up a hill to disappear over the other side. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be as clean a getaway as he’d thought—some poor sod was getting robbed blind in the roadway along the bottom of the ravine, an old man and his retainers fretting about the carriage as bandits swarmed all over it. It wasn’t Crowley’s problem. He rode down towards the road to begin making his way up the other side of the ravine, catching the eye of the old man in the process.

“Sir, please!” the old man begged. “The painting! That man has it—he’s getting away!”

“The guards can help,” Crowley said, glancing at the thief making off with the case holding the supposed painting.

“Please, sir, it’s my life’s work!” the old man cried, and Crowley’s conscience tingled. He groaned.

“Fine. Fine!” He urged Bentley to a gallop after the thief.

One pell-mell chase and a dozens-of-feet freefall into a lake later, Crowley dragged himself ashore, where the old man was waiting. Crowley shoved the painting tube at him.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Crowley growled, “I need to find another horse.” He was exceedingly sore about that. But that’s what he got for daring heroics and leaping from one horse to another in pursuit of a bloody painting. He didn’t stick around to hear the old man speak further; the Royal Guards’ trumpets could be heard echoing through the woods. Crowley wrung out the worst from his sopping hair and took off. Surely there had to be a farm with a horse nearby. He hated to leave Bentley, but perhaps it would be safer not to take her into the wild world. It was full of danger, after all.

.

Aziraphale awoke to the cock’s crow as he did early every morning. The ashes of last night’s fire stained his hands and face, and likely the rest of him as well, but it was a small price to pay for late-night reading by the embers. The morning was fresh and fine, a cool kiss of the autumn to come chasing the edge from the late summer heat. Aziraphale breathed it in. His stepmother and her pigheaded sons weren’t awake yet. All was right with the world.

He ventured out to the orchard; some apples for a tart wouldn’t go amiss, with a day this nice. He was returning to the house with a basketful of lovely, firm apples when Aziraphale heard the sound of a panicked whinny and an unfamiliar voice urging it on. Aziraphale’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Oh, no,” he grimaced, taking off for the field where he knew he could intercept them. “Not today, you won’t!”

Aziraphale made it just as the horse thief cleared the hedge and entered the field. He grabbed a few apples, dropped his basket, did a quick calculation, and with an arm surprisingly strong for one of his soft build, nailed the thief right in the chest with an apple. The thief toppled backwards off the frightened horse with a yelp.

“Thief!” Aziraphale cried, throwing another apple. The thief squawked, shielding themself with their cloak. It looked rather wet, Aziraphale thought, and was conscious of the thief speaking, but he was still too angry to pay attention to either. He aimed an apple at the thief’s ankles and was rewarded with another indignant cry and a hop-skip of pain. “This should teach you to steal other people’s things!”

“I wasn’t stealing!” the figure protested. “Just borrowing!”

“And I suppose you think I should just let you make off with our livelihood, should I?” Aziraphale spat, aiming his last apple and intending to make it really hurt—a black eye, maybe, if the intruder dared show his face. The thief untangled themself from their dripping cloak and tossed back a wet mane of flaming red hair, and between the fine clothes and the hair, Aziraphale knew to immediately drop his apple, then sank to the ground in obeisance.

“Er,” the Crown Prince said.

“Forgive me, your Highness, I—I did not see you,” Aziraphale stammered. Was his face going numb? Oh, dear. He chanced a look up at the prince, trying to gauge his reaction and see how long he had left to live.

“Your aim begs to differ,” the Crown Prince winced, rubbing his apple-smeared front. He looked down at Aziraphale and quirked an eyebrow at him. Aziraphale tried to speak but found his throat had closed up. The prince snorted. “Relax. You were protecting your master’s property. I’m not in the habit of punishing peasants for simple misunderstandings.”

“There—there are better horses,” Aziraphale finally managed. “Younger, if—if you wish.”

“This one will do,” the prince shrugged, chasing the horse back down. “Uh. Here.” He dug out a pouch and tossed it at Aziraphale before getting back in the saddle. The horse snorted and shied but seemed less panicked with Aziraphale near. Aziraphale caught the pouch and wrinkled his nose, for the pouch was also dripping wet. The prince took the reins and slicked back his hair out of his face.

“Can I count on your silence?” the prince asked, and Aziraphale nodded furiously. The prince smiled, though it was a nervous sort of smile, Aziraphale very privately thought. “Good. Uh. May your…fields prosper, and such.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, dazed, and the prince turned and galloped away. That was certainly not how Aziraphale would have chosen to meet the prince. At least it was memorable. He was deeply unlikely to forget the stab of terror at realizing whose royal person he had been so intent on bludgeoning with fruit.

Aziraphale gathered up his apple basket, then turned his attention to the wet pouch in his hand. He upturned it and nearly dropped it all—there were more than twenty gold pieces in his hands! Twenty-seven, in fact. Aziraphale’s heart lifted. This would be more than enough to buy back Newton, if he hurried.

But first—house duties.

Aziraphale bustled into the kitchen, where Anathema was preparing breakfast with very little enthusiasm (or less than usual, anyway). She glanced at him and gave him a wan smile that did nothing for the dark circles under her reddened eyes. Aziraphale put his hand on her shoulder as he passed.

“Where’ve you been all morning?” Pepper asked with a raised eyebrow. “Sun’s been up for a while.”

“It sure has,” Aziraphale said, plopping the pouch on the block as he passed to put the apples away. “And it’s going to be a rather beautiful one, I think.”

“What’s—that’s—this is a lot of gold!” Brian cried as he left off attempting to knead bread and peeked into the pouch. Aziraphale knew that Wensleydale would probably be able to count the amount at a glance, but he would also not be able to shut up about it, so it was for the best he was in the garden fetching supplies for lunch. “Where’d you get it?”

“From an angel of mercy,” Aziraphale said, decidedly not thinking over how the morning sun had looked glinting in the Prince’s luxurious red hair, wet and straggly though it was. “If she thinks she can sell Newt for a pittance, this should be more than enough to buy him back, with some to spare, I’d say.”

“Well, don’t leave it out in the open!” Pepper hissed as Anathema stared at him mutely. Pepper took the pouch and shoved it in Aziraphale’s apron pocket. “Hide it! Before she sniffs it out!”

Aziraphale promised he would, just as soon as Anathema was done hugging him, hard and tight and with maybe a few tears shed into his shoulder.

The Baroness was in a fine fettle, herself; it seemed even she was not immune from the effects of nice weather. Aziraphale served their morning breakfast with a quiet smile and a “good morning” as he did every morning, settling the third round of Gabriel’s eggs on his plate and praying that he was hungry enough to stop finding miniscule fault with every plate put in front of him. Sandalphon had no such qualms, though he was very particular about Aziraphale staying two steps away from him at all times, which made serving him a bit of a challenge but Aziraphale managed.

“Aziraphale,” Baroness Michael said, closing her elegant hand around his wrist as he slid her breakfast before her, startling him quite badly. By the grace of God alone, the Baroness did not end up with a lapful of cooked egg all over her fine brocade gown.

“Yes, madam?” Aziraphale replied quietly, awaiting judgement. Baroness Michael gently pulled Aziraphale to the side and looked him up and down. Aziraphale knew by now how to make sure his cheeks didn’t flush and his eyes didn’t burn, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t a struggle.

“Covered in cinders and soot again, I see,” Gabriel commented from where he was tucking into his breakfast. “Honestly, Aziraphale, if you’re going to stay up all night reading, you might as well stay up making yourself presentable, as well.”

“We’ll have ashes in our wine at this point,” Sandalphon chimed in snidely.

“Yes, the cinders are a problem,” Baroness Michael said lightly, “but that is not the matter on which I wished to speak. It is the issue of your performance.”

“I do wish to please you, madam,” Aziraphale said softly.

“Then perhaps you should put a little more effort into both your presentation and your work ethic,” Baroness Michael said, releasing Aziraphale’s wrist and returning to her meal.

“Is there anything in particular that was not up to your standard this morning, madam?” Aziraphale hazarded, and was rewarded with a sharp side-eye from the Baroness.

“Breakfast was almost a quarter of an hour late,” she said. “We have much to do today, and it will not do for us to go about our business on aching bellies because we had to stuff ourselves after our incompetent staff did not get breakfast on the table on time.”

“Yes, madam,” Aziraphale murmured, and slid from the room. He’d had worse mornings, and the knowledge that she and her sons were going to be out for the day was a welcome one. Pilfering the clothes Gabriel and Sandalphon had outgrown (or had deemed out of fashion) but refused to be rid of would go much easier if they weren’t still in the house. If he was to buy back Newton, he needed to look the part. It was just as well Adam was due for a visit today, a break granted by his master to take care of his own business; he had a better eye for colors than Aziraphale did, and what Wensleydale, Brian, and Pepper lacked in taste they made up for in emotional support. Anathema, of course, would be the sensible one making sure they didn’t get themselves caught, and normally Newt would help in that endeavor, but given that the whole venture today was about Newt…well.

Aziraphale watched the carriage leave for town with bated breath, then bolted for the back kitchen.

“Is he here yet?” Aziraphale asked, only to be caught in a youthfully exuberant embrace. “Oh! I see he is. Hello, Adam.”

“Master Fell,” Adam winked. He was looking very well, well-fed and well-learned and well-spirited, and his eyes sparkled with that old familiar mischief. Over his shoulder, Aziraphale looked to Anathema, who had the first true smile on her face since Baroness Michael announced Newt was in debt to her and would have to be gotten rid of to pay it off. “Is the old bat out?”

“You know very well she is, you rapscallion,” Aziraphale said fondly. “I need your help.”

“I know, Brian and Pepper told Wensley and Wensley told me,” Adam said, and took Aziraphale’s arm. “It’s just as well today isn’t going to be as hot.”

“Tender mercies,” Aziraphale said, and let himself be led up to Gabriel’s chambers first, Brian and Wensleydale and Pepper following behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the good feedback! Hope the story continues to deliver :P

Crowley gave up when the captain of the guard cut him off and the horse tossed him at last.

“Apologies, your royal Highness,” Captain Warlock said dryly, grabbing at the reins of the horse as Crowley groaned and hauled himself up. “Game’s over. Your mother has requested your presence.”

“When has she ever not, these days?” Crowley grumbled. Between the lake and the ground and the apples, he was not having the best day for avoiding bruises. “I assume she wants to talk about Spain, and I don’t want to talk about Spain, I would rather avoid all talk of Spain entirely unless it’s to talk about the virtues of Spanish wine far, far away from the meddling fingers of unreasonable mothers.”

“Unfortunately, Spain has not yet reached that point with you, sire,” Captain Warlock rolled his eyes. “Where did you steal this horse from, then? Poor thing looks frightened half to death.”

“Some peasant farm or another,” Crowley said, wincing and rubbing his chest. “I’ll return it.”

“Of course, your Highness,” Captain Warlock nodded. “We will be more than happy to accompany you.”

“You would,” Crowley grumbled as the rest of the guard caught up, except for those members who were presumably helping the blighter down in the ravine. “I’ll see if I can remember the way to the farm.” He swung himself back up in the saddle, and the horse snorted but didn’t try to buck him off this time. Infernal beast. Every bit as stubborn as the peasant he’d stolen it from, though not nearly as lovely. Not that Crowley could be a good judge of beauty when he was under attack from rogue fruits, but only a blind person wouldn’t have noticed a man that radiant. Or maybe he was just desperate to avoid Spain, who knew.

“The horse will know better than you, sir,” Captain Warlock pointed out, and Crowley had to admit, he had a point.

“Well, you daft thing, go on,” Crowley said. “Go on home.”

The horse looked back at him with an unimpressed eye, then snorted and began walking. The guardsmen followed at a leisurely pace. Crowley gritted his teeth and resolved to not try and urge the horse faster. It wasn’t too much longer that Crowley was very surprised to find the carriage of the gentleman whose painting he had saved crossing their path and seemingly running on a parallel to them.

“Ah! Signore!” the old man cried, hailing Crowley. “Or—sorry, your Royal Highness!”

“You did Signore da Vinci a great service, you know,” Captain Warlock said, putting special emphasis on the name, and Crowley’s jaw dropped.

“Of course! Signore, you’re—you’ve been called to my mother’s palace, yes?” Crowley asked, pulling alongside the carriage to walk in time with Leonardo da Vinci. “You’re the picture of a modern renaissance man, surely you can make her see reason! Bring her into the sixteenth century!”

“Ah…perhaps,” Leonardo da Vinci said hesitantly, looking over Crowley’s head at Captain Warlock behind him. “Captain, please translate?”

“His Royal Highness finds himself afflicted with an arranged marriage,” Captain Warlock said in such a flat deadpan Crowley would have been insulted if he wasn’t so elated over meeting Leonardo da Vinci, of all people. “We are currently returning a horse he…borrowed, with full intent to return, I’m sure.”

“I did,” Crowley protested. “Anyway, when I’m back, we should break bread and discuss strategy, I’m dying to know your thoughts on avoiding an arranged marriage and international conflict in the same move.”

“Yes,” Leonardo da Vinci said, seemingly at a loss for words. “Yes, I’m sure we can…talk. More. About this subject. Of which I surely have much experience, being a humble painter.”

“There, see, knew you’d get it,” Crowley smiled. Then he frowned. “Out of curiosity…what’s in the painting tube? You know, the one I fell into a lake for?”

“Ah,” Leonardo da Vinci smiled, “you’ll like this, hang on.” And, somehow, balancing on a wagon seat, with Crowley on a horse hovering over his shoulder, Leonardo reached into his wagon, grabbed the tube, unscrewed the cap, and unfurled a painting of a person, likely a woman, looking placidly out at the world. Crowley blinked and studied it.

“It’s nice,” Crowley said. “What’s that behind it?”

“This? Oh, it’s the cartoon, just the sketch,” Leonardo said, shuffling the two so the cartoon was on top.

“I think I like that one better,” Crowley mused. “She looks…bit more mischievous.”

“Perhaps you just like it because you see a reflection, yes?” Leonardo smiled, and Crowley flushed.

“You made it sound like getting that was a matter of life and death,” Crowley said to cover up his embarrassment as Leonardo returned painting and sketch to their container.

“Love always is, sire,” Leonardo said serenely.

“Right,” Crowley said. “I can already see you’re going to be a great help the next few weeks.” He grinned, and just for fun urged the horse into a run, hoping it was still headed homewards, but it wasn’t any great imposition if it wasn’t. He thought the day still had some adventure left in it.

The carriage of Signore da Vinci diverged to carry on to the palace as Crowley finally slowed and let Captain Warlock and the rest catch up. This bit of wood was looking familiar. And was that the lake, further down? He hadn’t covered much ground at all, had he? Crowley humphed.

“If you’re worried about the state of your horse, Highness, I have reports of a black mare speeding like cursed lightning back for the palace stables,” Captain Warlock said, and Crowley nodded. Good girl, even if she hadn’t the sense to not run back into their gilded cage. She was a simple creature, she was allowed the oversight.

It seemed they were arriving at the house situated at the crown of the little estate Crowley had stolen the horse from right as the residents were returning. He vaguely knew of them, as he must know of all the members of court: the Baroness Michael, if he wasn’t mistaken, and her two sons, what’s-their-names—the handsome one, Gabriel, was memorable, at least, he couldn’t have remembered the other’s name if he tried. S-something. Sanderson? Sandalwood? Something.

Crowley didn’t bother hailing, knowing that once they got close enough Captain Warlock would either have that silly horn blown or the horses’ hooves would give them away. He let his eyes wander over the fields and garden of the estate, spying the orchard in the distance, which he had briefly run through trying to find a stable. His chest twinged. Probably needed to have that looked at, but privately. No need to have any harm come to a dutiful servant who didn’t recognize a dripping wet idiot on a horse for who he was.

“Your Royal Highness,” the Baroness Michael demurred once they were situated in front of the house, giving an elegant curtsy that spread her skirts about her. She shot a look over her shoulder, but didn’t break her serene expression. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“I’m—er—returning a horse I borrowed,” Crowley said sheepishly as he got off the horse in question and passed it off into the hands of a waiting servant, a young man with dark hair (wrong color, wrong build, too young). “I’m afraid I may have scared the wits out of one of your servants, a pale-haired one.”

“He’s mute, your Highness,” the Baroness said immediately. Crowley quirked an eyebrow at her.

“He spoke quite forcefully, when our paths crossed,” Crowley said, and saw the flush of color in the Baroness’ cheeks as there was a loud clattering from behind the house door and her two sons exited, Gabriel in a fine purple tunic tailored too closely to his waist and the S one (Santivos? Sangria? Wait, no, too Spanish—) dressed well but not to excess fashion. Gabriel looked like a peacock ready to preen. Crowley looked him over with a critical eye (too tall, too blunt, nice eyes but not really his type).

“Your Highness,” Gabriel said with a bow and a flourish. The one next to him bobbed in imitation.

“Allow me to present my sons, Gabriel,” Baroness Michael said, with all the relish of a woman presenting her finest jewel, and then continued almost in afterthought, “and Sandalphon.”

Sandalphon, that was it. Odd name, that. Crowley inclined his head, then swung up onto a horse a guardsman presented him with (the guardsman then went to double up behind another one on her horse). Crowley didn’t miss how Gabriel’s violet eyes hadn’t left him since the man came down the stairs, and shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He was no stranger to hunger, nor to having it cast his way, but if it was between Gabriel and, say, the Princess of Spain…

“I wish you a good afternoon, then,” Crowley said, casting one last glance out to the fields and then turning around to start for home. He had no idea this estate was so close. Some of those apples he’d been pelted with looked quite good; maybe he could sneak through and take some of those, assuming the curly-headed servant wasn’t anywhere nearby. Prince or not, he wasn’t so sure he’d be lucky at a second time snatching something that belonged to that man’s mistress, even if it was just an apple.

.

Aziraphale walked to the palace with his head held high, attempting to remember Adam’s final advice (“If you’re to act a noble, then you must play the part. Don’t let them see your fear. Keep your chin up.”) and succeeding by virtue of being distracted by the sights around him. It had taken longer than Aziraphale had thought to get dressed and ready; he was wearing his own boots, because neither Sandalphon’s nor Gabriel’s feet were close to his size, but Adam had assured him no one would be looking at his feet (how, though, the boots went up to his knee, at least—).

The light blue tunic with rosettes of embroidered pearls felt much too fine for eveningwear, let alone an everyday outfit, but Aziraphale thought it looked rather well on him nonetheless. He spotted a wagon going by with a cage attached to it, and there, crammed in with a dozen other starving-looking unfortunates, was the pale face and bright blue eyes of Newton Pulsifer, the single most unfortunate man Aziraphale had ever known and whom he was determined to bring home. Aziraphale took several deep, quick breaths. Then he quickened his step to catch up, and reached out to pull hard at the bridle of the horse.

The horses whinnied as they were stopped and the cart screeched to a halt. The dirty, ill-mannered man driving the cart let out a yell as he was almost dislodged.

“What do you think you’re doing, then?” the man roared, yanking at the reins, but Aziraphale caught the reins of one of the horses with his other hand, stopping the cart further.

“I’m here for that man,” Aziraphale pointed to Newt. “I wish to pay the debt owed against him.”

“He’s already bought and paid for,” the man spat, tugging at the reins, but Aziraphale tightened his grip.

“I’m prepared to take this to—to a higher authority,” Aziraphale threatened. “Release him now.”

“The Queen herself signed off on it,” the man growled.

“I’m prepared to pay you twenty—twenty-seven gold pieces,” Aziraphale said, and held the pouch up, still slightly damp.

“You can have me for twenty-seven gold, if you’re so desperate,” the man grunted. “Now get _out of my way!_ ”

“You _dare_ raise your voice at a gentleman?” a new and unfortunately familiar voice cut into the conflict, and Aziraphale released the reins, at least; the bridle, he held fast to as he turned to see the Prince, looking dry and rumpled, riding forward. His honey-bright eyes glanced over Aziraphale, then looked back again with a bit more scrutiny. Aziraphale ducked his head in what he hoped would be taken as proper etiquette and not hiding his face.

“He’s obstructing the Queen’s business, your Highness, sir,” the man driving the cart squeaked.

“Why?” the Prince asked. The man started to say something, and the Prince cut him off. “Not you, you stay put until I say so. You, sir. Why are you…you know…doing…this?” He gestured vaguely at Aziraphale and the cart and the whole situation as a whole. “They’re criminals, hardly worthy of your charity.”

“To start, one of them is my manservant and I would like him back very much,” Aziraphale said, hoping his tone would stem argument or question for the moment. “And if the others are criminals, they can’t help it, your Highness.”

“Oh?” the Prince raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.

“Well, sire,” Aziraphale said, his voice breaking briefly, and he took a composing breath and let go of the bridle, hoping the cartman would know better than to drive off before the matter was settled. “If you—if our leaders fail to provide a decent moral and practical education for their subjects, and those subjects fall into the habits required to survive a system that does not support them, is it not the failure of the system and not the subjects?” Aziraphale had to fold his hands into fists to stop him from fidgeting with them and was so bold as to take a step forward. “Could it not be said, then, that you first make criminals and then punish them?”

The Prince’s warm, intense eyes hadn’t left his for a moment since Aziraphale dared to look up at him, and Aziraphale almost held his breath, waiting to see what the Prince’s verdict would be. A strange Prince, to be sure, one who stole peasant horses and didn’t announce himself and gave gold to servants. Who could tell what was to come?

“Well, then,” the Prince said, looking at the cartman. “You heard the man. Release his manservant and be on your way.”

“But—” the man protested, and the Prince raised both eyebrows. The cartman immediately shut up and clambered out of the wagon to unlock the cage and let Newt out. Newt stumbled like he’d been hobbled for some period of time, and fell into Aziraphale’s arms with a confused grunt.

“Aziraphale?” he murmured, and Aziraphale shushed him.

“Not here,” he whispered. “Meet me by the bridge.” He took a step back. “Very well, Master Pulsifer, glad to have you back. Go prepare the horses, please.” He watched Newt walking the stiffness out of his legs, then looked back at the Prince, who was watching him with a look Aziraphale couldn’t interpret—surprise, maybe? Puzzlement? Wonder? Surely not, that would be incredibly foolish to think, Aziraphale had just scolded him, after all. Aziraphale bowed to him, then walked off, heading towards the bridge.

“Not often you hear a man arguing for human rights in the middle of the palace market,” the Prince said from right behind him, and Aziraphale would deny all semblance of shrieking and jumping, but if anyone were to ask an onlooker, it was akin to shrieking and jumping, if not squeaking and flinching.

“Well, perhaps more should,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, smoothing down his tunic and pretending he wasn’t flustered. The Prince still had stains from smeared apple on his chest, and the barest quirk of a smile hanging around his mouth. Aziraphale stiffened his spine and continued walking. “Perhaps if the people’s Prince thought more of them, they would think more of him, as well.”

“I suppose you must think me quite ignorant,” the Prince said, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell if it was a trap or not.

“Well…you did give one man back his life, and I am grateful, but did you look at any of the others?” Aziraphale asked. “Did you think of what lives they must have led, to be sold like chattel by powers beyond their control? The whole business makes me fairly sick with grief and indignation, if you must know.” Aziraphale could feel his cheeks heating. “All people deserve respect, your Highness, most importantly of all those on whose backs you’ve built your kingdom.”

“So not just ignorant, but arrogant, too,” the Prince said, and Aziraphale flinched again. “Relax, would you? I’m not going to hurt you.”

“One…one doesn’t normally say such things to princes,” Aziraphale mumbled.

“Well, it hardly seems fair to have a philosophical discussion when only one of the parties knows the other,” the Prince said, and Aziraphale stopped and looked at him. The Prince was definitely smiling now, possibly in spite of him rather than at him. “I’ve been forced to memorize all the courtiers over the years, and I haven’t seen you before. Or…not at court, anyway.” The Prince’s smile faded to a slight frown, and Aziraphale gulped and kept walking.

“I’m new,” he said shortly. “Visiting my cousin.”

“Who is?” It really was irksome that the Prince’s longer legs let him keep up quite easily.

“M-my cousin,” Aziraphale stammered.

“Are you honestly refusing to tell me who you are?” the Prince asked, voice incredulous and the irritating little smile back, and Aziraphale swallowed hard.

“We’re all known in the eyes of God,” Aziraphale said, biting his lip.

“She’s not in the habit of answering my calls,” the Prince said, and Aziraphale frowned at his suddenly embittered tone.

“I suppose God might be too busy to answer calls,” Aziraphale said, fully aware he was chasing a vaguely blasphemous rabbit hole to avoid the question but hoping it was diverting. “Perhaps She has angels doing Her clerical work.”

“And good deeds in Her name?” the Prince chuckled. “If you won’t give me any other name, then I suppose I shall just have to call you Angel until such time as you find me worthy of it.”

Aziraphale did stop then, staring at the Prince with a slightly-open mouth. The Prince reached forward and chucked his chin, closing it.

“You’ll catch flies,” the Prince teased. “I suppose I’ll be seeing more of you, then, Angel. Since you’re visiting your mysterious cousin and all.”

“I—I suppose,” Aziraphale stammered, and cleared his throat. “If your Highness would excuse me, I—I have things to attend to.”

“Ah, the work is never done, is it, Angel?” the Prince grinned. “Take care not to start a revolution before supper.”

“I make no promises,” Aziraphale said with dignity, and with a bow he walked as quickly as he could away while still being polite, his face flushing hot and breath stalling in his lungs. Did…was he just making jokes? With the Prince of France?

By the time he made it back to Newt, he must’ve looked quite out of sorts, because Newt put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright, Master Fell?”

“I’m fine, Newt,” Aziraphale said, taking a few deep breaths. “Let’s get you home. Anathema’s nearly made herself sick with worry.”

“Can’t keep her waiting,” Newt said with soft eyes, and they set off for home together.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Evil Stepmother Michael hours this chapter, with a hint of "yes I made God the Queen of France and called her after her actress' name." Some of my favorite jokes from the Ever After film won't make it in because Crowley's relationship with his mother is different from Henry's with his father, but I hope the story doesn't suffer for it.
> 
> (Warnings for more overt abusive behaviors, just as a head's up.)

“Ah,” Queen Francis of France said when Crowley was finally shown into her office. “There you are, dear.”

“Mother,” Crowley said stiffly, swiping one of his mother’s trinkets off of her desk and toying with it. Queen Francis sighed as he did so.

“My son, must you?” she asked, and Crowley shot her a smile that was all teeth.

“I don’t know, Mother, must you send the entire Royal Guard after me every time I happen to leave the grounds?”

“If you were just leaving on small errands, I wouldn’t have to, but we both know that you had no intention of returning and I rather need you at the moment,” Queen Francis replied. “Your station comes with specific obligations, my son.”

“As I am ever aware,” Crowley muttered. Queen Francis breathed through her nose, counted to ten, and then continued.

“Spain is—”

“Spain can kiss my—”

“Spain is willing to reconsider the marriage contract,” Queen Francis interrupted loudly, and Crowley froze.

“Pardon?”

“Or, rather, I am,” Queen Francis said, and Crowley stared. “We’ll leave Spain to me, but I had a thought you should really consider before shuffling off to Jerusalem or wherever you were planning on going this time.”

“Jerusalem could be nice this time of year,” Crowley said absently. “What are you talking about, Mother?”

“I’m throwing a masque ball in a little under a month,” Queen Francis said, and held up a finger as Crowley began to groan. “At which time, the announcement of your engagement will be made. I am willing to let you decide to whom you will be engaged. If you are unable to find a better match than Spain, then Spain it will be. Do we have an agreement?”

Crowley stared at her. “But…what about your treaty?”

“How about you let me worry about that particular detail?” Queen Francis smiled. “You have bigger problems, I think.”

Crowley privately doubted that but appreciated the leniency he was being shown.

“Do choose wisely, my dear one,” Queen Francis said, returning to whatever letter she was in the middle of writing. “Divorce is only something they do in England.”

Crowley barked a laugh that was half amusement and more than half amazement. “Mother, are you feeling alright?”

“Quite well,” Queen Francis nodded. “Why, do you not like my idea?”

“It’s brilliant,” Crowley said hurriedly, and scurried to the desk to put down the trinket he hadn’t yet broken and kiss his mother’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Crowley ran from his mother’s rooms in better spirits than he’d ever escaped them before. A whole month to find someone to marry that wasn’t from Spain. Incredible! Perhaps da Vinci had spoken with her already.

Unbidden, Crowley’s thoughts returned to the pale-haired courtier he’d talked to earlier that day. There was something very familiar about that one, Crowley just knew it. He went into his rooms and unlaced his shirt, peeling it back and hissing at the blooming bruise on his chest. Maybe someone in the palace knew how to make a poultice for this. He couldn’t believe an apple had done that to him—an apple thrown by a servant, no less. Well. That wasn’t fair, servants had to be fairly strong to do all that hard labor they were known for. Respect, the voice of the courtier scolded him, and Crowley sighed. It would figure that it would take an actual angel to coax some reverence out of him.

He wondered if he could find Angel again if he looked hard enough. Angel’s reticence was curious; Crowley was used to being denied things all the time, but not something so simple as someone’s name. He prodded his bruise, then changed his clothes. First a stop to see if any of the staff could help with the bruise, then to see if Signore da Vinci was settled in enough to entertain a conversation. He was an older gentleman, artistic and brilliant—surely he would have an idea of how to settle on a choice of mate within a month.

.

Anathema was in the fields when Aziraphale and Newt broke through the windbreak, and Brian and Wensleydale with her; they had to pull her upright and point before Anathema noticed. Aziraphale smiled as Anathema ran full-tilt at Newt, who ran full-tilt back, and their resounding crashing embrace rattled Aziraphale’s heart in his chest. Their relationship was an odd one, but it was close, and if Aziraphale was any judge, Anathema looked as though she was never letting Newt out of her clutches again.

“Bless you, Aziraphale,” Anathema whispered, her eyes bright and intense, and she pulled him into their hug when he was close enough. Newt pressed a long kiss into Anathema’s dark hair, and squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“That’ll teach her,” Brian said triumphantly, and Aziraphale laughed.

“Actually, one of us had better get back to the house,” Wensleydale said. “Pepper said the Baroness was in a mood when she got home today.”

“That’ll be because the prince stopped by,” Brian said, and Aziraphale tripped as they all started walking back to the house. Newt caught him by the arm before he fell.

“Aziraphale told the prince off, I think,” Newt said. “When he came to get me, I mean. The prince was there.”

“That’ll be twice in one day,” Aziraphale said faintly. Four sets of shocked eyes pinned him in place, and he flushed. “The—the Prince was stealing a horse this morning. I rather took issue. He was…merciful. And gave me the gold. That’s where it came from, from him.”

“Alright, fair enough for the first time, but why a second?” Anathema asked, a smile practically splitting her face. She looked incredibly proud, one arm around Newt and one hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I just—he needed a lesson on human rights,” Aziraphale blushed. “So…that’s twice I told him off and he offered to help in return.”

“What a charmer,” Anathema smiled, and Aziraphale colored.

“Oh, stop, he’s the Crown Prince, not an eligible bachelor,” Aziraphale snipped. “Besides, I think the Baroness would murder me if she ever caught a whiff that I’d talked to him before Gabriel, and the last thing I need is another reason for her to hate me.” Aziraphale sighed. “I…did refuse to tell him my name, and he decided to call me Angel, though.”

Anathema’s smile was audible at that point, but they were at the main house, so she said nothing.

“Pepper’s already gotten started on supper, we should go help,” Brian said, and he and the rest scattered to their various duties. Aziraphale squared his shoulders and prepared to go about his own afternoon tasks—some dusting probably wouldn’t go amiss.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale didn’t make it that far before he was grabbed by the wrist and flung to the ground in the parlor by a furious Baroness Michael, with a smug Gabriel and absentminded Sandalphon nearby.

“How dare you let the Prince surprise us like that,” Michael spat, and Aziraphale stared up at her, wide-eyed, his heart pounding. Gabriel hummed something that sounded a lot like “somebody’s in trouble” as he picked at an ugly lopsided needlework project he’d been trying his hand at. “It’s embarrassing enough that you spoke to him, but to see him and tell no one—”

“I didn’t recognize him!” Aziraphale cried, knowing he was flushing again and unable to stop it. “It all happened so quickly, I—”

Baroness Michael’s hearty laugh interrupted his explanation. She looked less like a dog about to bite, at least, and sunk into her own chair. “Oh, Aziraphale,” she sighed, smiling. “You country bumpkin. Luckily for you, Gabriel put on quite the performance.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if he calls again,” Sandalphon said, and Gabriel preened. Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll his eyes with the practice of one who’d been doing it for well over a decade.

“Well, then,” Baroness Michael said, her smile turning a bit more imperious. “We shall just have to work harder to make sure the house is spotless, won’t we? We cannot have a royal bottom sitting on a dirty seat, now, can we?”

At that moment, Newt loomed in the doorway, and Michael narrowed her eyes at him. “What on earth are you doing back here?”

“Um—they said I’d worked off your—sorry, my debt,” Newt stammered. “They—they told me I could come home.”

“Ah,” Baroness Michael sniffed, glancing at Aziraphale but ultimately returning to artfully staring out a window. “Go…catch a chicken, or something.”

Aziraphale took that as his dismissal and fled.

.

Several days later, the announcement for the Queen’s masque ball arrived, and Baroness Michael was at her wit’s end already with Gabriel’s moodiness about the whole thing. Gabriel was the most fashion-forward young man in the kingdom, that much was certain, but that came with a level of discernment that at the moment Michael would call pickiness.

“This one is perfectly lovely, darling, it goes so well with your eyes,” Michael protested as Gabriel glared at the coat in her hands.

“Of course it does, but I wore that one to court last month, I can’t be seen in it,” Gabriel growled. “Besides, it’s blue, and a hundred other idiots will be wearing the exact same color, just because it’s part of the Queen’s crest.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Michael said, and cast a critical eye over Sandalphon’s latest outfit he was modeling. “That’ll do, dear, we don’t want to stand out overmuch.”

“As you say, Mother,” Sandalphon nodded, then looked over Gabriel’s discard pile. “No luck?”

“If I knew what we were looking for, perhaps I could think of something,” Michael said pointedly.

“Something fit for a king,” Gabriel pouted. Michael frowned, then was struck with an idea. It was perhaps a bit out of line, but…

“Come along, boys,” Michael said, standing. “I have just the thing.”

She glided down the hall to Aziraphale’s old bedroom, which had become something of another storage unit since the boy didn’t need such spacious quarters. She knelt at the trunk at the foot of the bed and cast a smile over her shoulder at her sons.

“Waste not,” she said, and delicately flicked open the latch, “want not.”

She drew out a length of beautiful silver brocade, under which was resting a pair of delicate beaded slippers made of glass and silver. Gabriel gasped and touched the fabric.

“What is it?” Sandalphon asked.

“Aziraphale’s mother’s wedding dress, which she was converting into a tunic before she died,” Michael said smugly as she held it up to Gabriel’s face to compare the color with his skin tone. “For his dowry, you know.”

“A dowry? For Aziraphale?” Gabriel snorted. “Mother, it’s unfinished.”

“Well, we can make it into whatever we want, then, can’t we?” Michael purred. Gabriel took the shoes that Sandalphon offered and his eyes lit up.

“These are a must,” Gabriel said, kicking off his current shoe and slipping on the slipper. It didn’t fit quite right, but if Gabriel forced it, it would do fine. “Look at how they make my calves look, Mother.”

“We can have them altered, as well, if they don’t fit,” Michael said, and took the shoes back. At that exact moment, there was a quiet cough from the doorway.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, and Michael nearly dropped the dress and shoes. Oh, dear. This was a bit embarrassing, even if it was just Aziraphale. The smidgen of conscience left in Michael’s heart whispered that parading his dead mother’s suit as an option for Gabriel to woo a prince in was probably a little uncouth.

“Airing out your dress,” Michael found herself saying, and smiled at Aziraphale’s confused expression. “For the masque.”

“You…you wish me to go?” Aziraphale asked, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Is that so odd?” Michael rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Aziraphale, we are family, after all, why wouldn’t I invite you as well?”

She felt Sandalphon and Gabriel side-eyeing her and made a show of putting the dress and shoes back into the trunk. “You’ll have to finish all your chores and mind your manners, of course, but I don’t see why we should stop you,” Michael continued. “It’s not like the Prince will be looking at you, after all, but the fresh air will do you good.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was irritatingly small. Michael huffed.

“Honestly, it hurts that you don’t feel like one of my sons,” Michael sniffed, and herded her actual sons out of the room. “Come, now, much to do before the masque.”

She didn’t notice Pepper and Wensleydale in the hall, nor the look they shot each other as she swept by, already planning their next outing. Gabriel would need jewels to match, of course, and there was the issue of finding a proper mask to go with it…


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I could have waited to introduce "angel" as a viable nickname this chapter, since this covers the scene where "angel" pops up in the movie, buuuut...I didn't. So here we go instead.

“I’m grateful she’s letting me pick, don’t get me wrong,” Crowley sighed, skipping a rock across the surface of the lake, “but it’s a lot of pressure, you know?”

Sitting with his wagon of curious contraptions, Leonardo da Vinci hummed, making adjustments to the shoes he was about to be testing. Crowley paced up and down the shore, ignoring the perfectly nice day in favor of his new internal quandary.

“Do you believe in soulmates? In one perfect person for you?” Crowley asked, and got an affirmative grunt in reply. “Too much that could go wrong, in my opinion. Say—say God puts two people on Earth, and they are lucky enough to find each other, out of all the people who exist on the entire big world.”

“Quite the achievement,” Leonardo said idly, still not looking up from his project.

“But—but!—one of them gets hit by lightning!” Crowley gestured an explosion with his whole body, wheeling around and pacing the other direction along the shore.

“A very lucky person, then,” Leonardo said absently. “Or unlucky, as the case may be, but the odds of both finding your soulmate and getting struck by lightning are astronomical at best.”

“Well, what then?” Crowley frowned. “Is that it? Is the one person left supposed to be alone, then? Or, maybe, say that person’s lucky enough to find love again, is _that_ the person who the survivor’s meant to be with? Was the first one a fluke?”

“Your intellect is dizzying, Highness,” Leonardo said. Crowley ignored him.

“And suppose they’re somehow both the one for that person,” Crowley scowled, “is there an order to it, or is it all just chance? Some whim of Fate, not to be meddled in?”

“You cannot leave everything to Fate, boy,” Leonardo laughed, approaching the water’s edge. “She’s got a lot to do. Sometimes you’ve got to help her along. Make your own decisions, and have some confidence in them.”

“Speaking of confidence,” Crowley said, “you have some in those contraptions, I assume?”

“Don’t suppose you’d rather I had you test them, would you?” Leonardo smiled, and Crowley laughed and shook his head. “I’ll be alright, sire, just keep an eye out.”

Crowley watched in amazement as Leonardo strapped his feet into the boat-like shoes, and in further awe as Leonardo began shuffling across the lake’s surface. There was something floating way out there, something pale, but Crowley couldn’t tell what it was. The sun was peeking between clouds today, alternating between beating down and cool breezes, and Crowley distracted himself by watching the sun play on the water’s surface up until he heard screaming. Crowley whipped around in time to see Leonardo falling backwards into the water while the pale floating thing backpedaled away from him, and Crowley saw it was a person out there. He half-ran into the shallows before it registered that the screams turned into laughs, and he saw that the person floating out there was helping Leonardo back to shore, each holding a boat shoe.

“Are you hurt?” Crowley asked anxiously when Leonardo was close. The other person’s head was down, shaggy white-blond hair looking darker with lake water as the person gasped for breath between giggles.

“I leave walking on water to the Son of God,” Leonardo cried, holding his boat shoe with one hand and patting the back of his companion. “Luckily, I tripped over an angel.”

At that moment, the person lifted their head, and Crowley stared with delight into the pretty face of his Angel.

“It’s you!” Crowley beamed.

“Your Highness!” Angel squeaked, then yelped when he slipped back into the water. “Oh—careful, sirs, it’s—quite slippery right there!”

“What on earth are you doing out here?” Crowley asked, helping Angel to shore and stripping off his cloak to wrap around Angel’s shoulders; he was in his chemise and breeches, which were ever so slightly translucent with water, and Crowley was _not_ blushing about it because he was a grown man, thank you. “Oh, Signore, I’m sorry, let me—” Crowley ran back into the water to help Leonardo ashore, carrying his ridiculous boat-shoes. The sun came back out from behind the clouds and looked like it would be out for a while. Crowley made sure his companions were sitting comfortably before taking a seat on the shore himself.

“You never answered my question, Angel,” Crowley said after a few minutes, and Angel frowned at him. Crowley grinned at him. “What are you doing out here?”

“Swimming,” Angel said brightly. “Lovely day for it.”

“Not terrible,” Crowley nodded. “Where are your attendants?”

“I…gave them the day off,” Angel replied, lowering his eyes and looking back out to the lake. Crowley laughed.

“From what? Life?”

Angel’s eyes flashed back onto him, which was more or less Crowley’s goal. “You never before have bothered to think of what your own servants would be doing if they weren’t catering to your royal needs, have you?”

“Why would I?” Crowley shrugged. “I have enough to be getting on with.”

“Such as?” Angel raised his eyebrows.

“Such as…being a patron of the arts,” Crowley said, indicating Leonardo, who rolled his eyes at him. “Erm. Making laws. Avoiding Spanish dignitaries.” He folded his arms on his knees and sighed. “Spouse-hunting.”

“Worthy enough pursuits,” Angel shrugged. “I’m certain a week of cleaning out your own chamber pot would put a few things in perspective for you, nevertheless.”

“Such as?” Crowley parroted. Angel bit back an answering smile and shook his head.

“You’re baiting me now.”

“And you’re upset with me,” Crowley replied. “Why?”

Angel seemed to chew over his words. Then he sighed. “It seems sometimes that you are deliberately trying to get a rise out of me when you speak, yet I know it must just be the way you are. It astonishes me that you have no consideration for those below your station, yet you are conscious of being above them. You own all the land there is, and yet you take no pride in working it, or in those who work it themselves.”

“Arrogant and no pride all in one, however do I manage that?” Crowley asked. “And what of you, Angel? You speak of equality and yet you live the life of a courtier. What a contradictory pair we make.”

Angel seemed to bite back a smile. “Perhaps that’s just human nature, then, Highness.”

“Human nature or not, you are a fascinating study, Angel,” Crowley said, and grinned as Angel seemed to flush down to his chest (and how lovely to get to see him like this, wet and wrapped in Crowley’s cloak. Delicious).

“Fascinating? Me?” Angel frowned. “Perhaps you just like being scolded.”

“Perhaps I’ve never been scolded by someone with so much to say I actually wish to hear,” Crowley shrugged. “It must be exhausting, living with such conviction.”

“Only when I’m around you,” Angel said, and Crowley laughed, nudging him with his shoulder. Angel nudged him back. “Whyever do you like to irritate me so?”

“Whyever do you rise to the occasion?” Crowley challenged. Angel bit his lip but couldn’t hide his smile, and pushed some of his dripping hair back out of his face.

In the distance, someone was calling, and Angel paled, leaping to his feet. “Oh, dear, I must be going. I’ve lingered too long.”

“Hang on,” Crowley protested as Angel stood and unwrapped himself from Crowley’s cloak, “surely you can stay a few more—”

“No, I really must be going,” Angel panted, and started running up the slope of the shore.

“Could you tell me your name, at least?” Crowley shouted.

“Goodbye!” Angel called over his shoulder, and disappeared into the woods. Crowley stared after him, then looked down at an equally-mystified Leonardo.

“Why does he keep doing that?”

.

Lunch was through when Baroness Michael was informed that she had a visitor at the door.

She approached it and dismissed Wensleydale from her sight, then opened the door slightly to reveal her associate at the palace these last few years, a man by the name of Ligur who was very receptive to a little coin and more than helpful in dropping hints about the Prince and his activities, specifically.

“There you are,” Michael said brightly. “What kept you? I summoned you two days ago.”

“Palace is a bit busy, what with the masque and all,” Ligur replied, and Michael had to grant him that one.

“Fair enough,” she said, and reached into her purse. “Competition is going to be fierce with the Queen throwing open the doors like this, so I will need to know who the prince’s favorites are,” she dropped a coin into Ligur’s waiting palm, “what his schedule is,” another coin joined the first, “and any other little tidbits you happen to pick up.” Four more coins dripped into his hand. Ligur closed his fingers around them and grinned. “Once Gabriel is Prince Consort, I’ll certainly be in a much better position to repay you any favors I owe once this is done.”

“Right,” Ligur nodded. “Well, Prince is playing tennis with Duke Beelzebub tomorrow. Might be a nice place to drop in.”

“Excellent,” Michael nodded. “Eyes and ears open, Ligur. There’s more where that came from if you find something really special for me.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up,” Ligur said, and bowed and walked away. Michael closed the door with a satisfied smile. Good helpers could be so hard to find in court, but Ligur was an unexpected goldmine of opportunities. Just keep his palm well-greased and the wonders never ceased.

Now to go prepare Gabriel for tomorrow; if all went well, a simple spectator sport could turn into an all-day outing, if Gabriel insinuated in just the right way. Michael had not missed how Prince Crowley’s eye had lingered on Gabriel when he visited before. Really, it was child’s play at this point, when the Prince was desperate for anyone who wasn’t forced on him. The trick was to make it seem like it was his own decision. That was the way to controlling difficult people. It would be no trouble at all to manage him herself once Gabriel had him roped.

Her good mood lasted until dinner, when Sandalphon said, apropos of nothing, “I heard the Prince went to the Queen and had her release all the prisoners bound for the Americas recently.”

There was a crash as Aziraphale dropped an empty plate, the metal making a racket as the boy blushed and gathered up the mess he’d made. “Sorry,” Aziraphale said softly, as if anyone cared to hear his excuses. “Just surprising.”

“How stylishly humanitarian of him,” Gabriel said boredly. “I’m more curious about this Angel he’s been heard muttering about.”

“We ought to find who they are and bury them,” Michael said darkly, and winced as Aziraphale fumbled the plate again. “For goodness’ sake, take it and go away, you’re giving me a headache with that racket.”

“Yes, madam,” Aziraphale murmured, and mercifully hustled away. Michael massaged her temples and sighed.

“Are you ready for tomorrow, darling?” Michael asked, and Gabriel nodded. “Good. Tomorrow is critical for our plans. Whatever you do, be sure to stand out, there will be half a dozen other young people there to make an impression and you _must_ tower over them.”

“Shouldn’t be hard,” Gabriel smiled, and Michael smiled back.

“Excellent,” she said, and glanced at her other son. “Sandalphon, your hands are not food, stop licking them at once.” Sandalphon complied sullenly, and Michael looked out at the table. It was horribly dark. “Where are the candlesticks?” she demanded.

“They’ve gone missing,” Pepper said, poking her head around the corner, and Michael huffed.

“After all our years together, this is how things are?” Michael rolled her eyes. “I suppose, like with the tapestries, we’ll have to just garnish all your wages until they reappear.”

“Yes, madam,” Pepper mumbled, and Michael didn’t let herself smile. Not more than was proper, anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today we get to see Gabriel in action and a rare side of Michael, which still has some very blatant rudeness towards Aziraphale happening.

Tennis with Beelzebub was a pleasant enough diversion; Beelzebub was one of the few courtiers around his age who had no interest in courting him, and was thus tolerable to be around for longer stretches of time. Though, their tennis skills far outshone Crowley’s and they knew it, Crowley thought with a grimace at the sixth point the Duke had scored in a ten-minute period without breaking a sweat.

“Are you even trying?” Beelzebub yawned, and served the ball. Crowley, in his determination to not suck at something for once, chased it, and wound up falling through the net separating the audience from the players, and within seconds he was beset by people helping him to his feet and a multitude of hands where they should not be. Flushing, he clambered out of their grasp and back onto the pitch, and started taking out little embroidered handkerchiefs where they had been shoved all in his clothing. How had someone managed to tuck one into his codpiece without him noticing? It was beyond embarrassing.

He looked to Beelzebub for the ball, who rolled their eyes and pointed. Crowley turned and saw Gabriel (right? Gabriel? Son of the Baroness, great chin, weird eyes?) standing with his hip cocked, holding the ball in one hand and raising the opposite eyebrow in a grin.

“Thanks,” Crowley muttered, accepting the ball. “Um. You’re…looking well this morning.”

“You’re welcome to look, your Highness,” Gabriel winked.

“Um.” Crowley swallowed down his flustered consonants with a pained grin and returned to his game.

Unfortunately, when he was done, Gabriel was waiting with his usual pitcher of chilled wine, which meant it would be rude of Crowley to not invite Gabriel and his family along to his planned errand into the marketplace today, even though Crowley had a vague hope that maybe he’d run into Angel in the crowds. He had something with him today he thought Angel might like, but since Angel wasn’t there…

“Here,” Crowley said, reaching for a small tin from a servant walking along with them as they strolled through the cobblestone streets, “try—thank you, by the way,” he said in an aside to the servant, who blinked at him. “Try this,” he said to Gabriel, breaking off a piece of the deep brown treat within. “Best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Rather than taking the shard of sweetness in his hand like a normal person, Gabriel leaned forward with his mouth open, and Crowley, after staring at him for a few seconds, awkwardly popped the treat in his mouth. Gabriel closed his mouth and chewed and moaned indecently.

“Like it?” Crowley asked lightly.

“Like it,” Gabriel nodded. “It’s positively sinful. What’s it called?”

“Chocolate,” Crowley replied. “Spanish monks keep sending bricks of it. Not bad once it’s been sweetened.”

“Incredible,” Gabriel breathed, and walked a little closer to Crowley than Crowley was comfortable with. This was going to be an awkward afternoon, Crowley could just tell.

.

“Oi.” A rough grunt brought Aziraphale out of his daydreaming, and he grimaced as he saw Monsieur Hastur lurking outside their booth at the market, where he and his friends attempted to bring some extra coin in to the estate by selling their farm goods. “Got anything extra today, eh?”

“No, Monsieur, I am not selling you my father’s swords,” Aziraphale frowned. “Take your vegetables and go, we’ve enough work to do without you lurking.”

“I don’t have to buy them,” Hastur said flatly. “Just have to wait for your little farm to run into the ground, and I’ll get what I’m after one way or another.”

“I’m sure you will,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Hastur had been after the antique swords in Aziraphale’s father’s collection for a long time; it was any wonder they were still in the house, with Baroness Michael selling off everything they owned to pay for Gabriel’s wardrobe, but they were some of the few things Aziraphale was determined to protect for as long as he could. Hastur stalked off without buying vegetables this week, which would hurt, but they would make do.

“Horrible man,” Aziraphale remarked to Anathema, who nodded. She and Newt and Wensleydale were the ones running the booth today, helping Aziraphale sort the produce and carefully lay out the eggs while the chicken they could bear to part with clucked balefully.

“Actually, not that it counts this week, but if he didn’t buy vegetables most every other week, I think I would tell the guards he’s loitering,” Wensleydale announced.

Aziraphale smirked and went about his business, mostly chasing down the chicken, which attempted to make a run for it. He listened to the sound of the crowd around him, and thought for a moment he heard a familiar voice saying “—our servants should be around here somewhere,” and another familiar voice answering “I’d like to meet them, I think,” but thought nothing of it until he was standing up, the chicken in his arms, and realized somehow the Prince was standing there.

Aziraphale panicked, and in his panic he might have accidentally launched the chicken into the Prince’s face, and had just enough time under cover of that confusion to duck out of the booth and hide behind a nearby store.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing, you’re going to scare the Prince to death!” he heard Michael shout, and Aziraphale put his hand on his chest to try and steady his heart and his breathing. That was close. He couldn’t believe he almost let the Prince see him.

“Was it just the three of you?” he heard the Prince ask.

“And—and the chicken, Highness,” Newt answered. Aziraphale leaned his head back against the wall and sighed with relief. Good old Newt. He waited a little while, and when he peeked around the wall, Michael and her sons and the Prince were gone. He snuck back to the booth and clapped Newt on the back. Newt startled and nearly crushed all the eggs.

“Was that necessary?” Anathema asked, glancing at Aziraphale while she tied up bundles of carrots.

“Could have been recognized,” Aziraphale muttered. “Didn’t want to have him remember me as either the servant who threw apples at him or the courtier who scolded him in broad daylight.”

“He calls you Angel, I don’t think he’s upset with you,” Newt observed. Aziraphale blushed and busied himself with sorting squash.

“I think he’s teasing me,” Aziraphale said. “Honestly, the man is insufferable.”

“Yes, you’ve been saying that,” Anathema said serenely.

“He and Gabriel deserve each other,” Aziraphale mumbled.

“Bite your tongue,” Anathema said sharply, and Aziraphale looked at her, surprised. Anathema smiled. “The only throne I want him sitting on is the one Newt has to clean every day.”

“You have a point,” Aziraphale laughed. “Still, he could try to be less of a heel.”

“Oh, he’s royalty, Master Fell, they’re born like that,” Anathema shrugged. “Still. He calls you Angel, he released prisoners after you told him off, he didn’t rat you out for throwing apples at him…I think he fancies you.”

“I think you’re delusional,” Aziraphale told her, and refused to say or hear another word on the subject. It had been too close a call today; best to let it rest.

.

“We shall press for a quick engagement,” Michael gushed as Aziraphale finished tidying up her chambers for bed. According to her, Prince Crowley had spent all day glued to Gabriel’s side, and seemed regretful to have to part ways at supper, refusing Gabriel’s multiple invitations to eat back at theirs and seemingly ignorant of Gabriel’s insinuations that he invite them to his, but sometimes men could balk at the most adorable times, she had simpered. Aziraphale had been letting her chatter for rather a while at this point. “Christmas in Paris! Can you imagine!”

Aziraphale smiled politely. Michael’s rapturous expression turned pitying, and not particularly kindly about it. “No, I don’t suppose you can.”

Aziraphale let his smile slide off his face. Michael held out her hairbrush, and Aziraphale obediently stood behind her and began brushing out her soft, fine hair. It was dark still, though more heavily salted with grey than it used to be.

“My mother was hard on me, too, you know,” Michael said, and her voice was…strange. Soft. “She used to tell me to wash my face at least twelve times a day, convinced it was never clean enough.”

Aziraphale felt a pang of sympathy, but given what he was in the middle of doing…he brushed out a knot with a bit less care than usual, and felt Michael’s hand on his wrist. He obeyed as she led him to walk around her, and blinked when she made him sit down on her bed in front of her. She studied him, and Aziraphale tried not to fidget under her gaze.

“You remind me so of your father, some days,” Michael said gently. Aziraphale blinked back startled tears. “I’m sure your mother must dominate your features, they’re so…irregular…but sometimes, it’s almost like he’s looking out at me through your eyes.”

“Did…did you love my father?” Aziraphale asked, hardly daring to breathe lest he should shatter this precious moment. Michael had never acted like this towards him. He wondered what had prompted it.

“I barely knew him,” Michael sighed. “I was young, and had two young children to look after, you know. It was more a marriage of convenience than love, but I was fond of him.” Michael cocked her head as she studied Aziraphale’s face. “It’s a difficult position, to be the disciplinarian of the house. It was my mother’s role, as well, but she took to it. She wanted me to be all I could be, and now look where I am.” Michael smiled, and it was one of her more usual, cold expressions. “A baroness, where before I was not. And Gabriel will be Prince Consort, I’m certain.”

Aziraphale let Michael withdraw again as she began to fantasize about living in the palace, and then she seemed to snap back all at once. “You may leave me now. I’m tired.”

“Yes, madam,” Aziraphale said softly, ready to escape this confusing encounter and examine it later where maybe he could glean some sense from it. The almost soft look in her eye when she looked at him haunted him for quite some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hastur here is taking the place of a slimeball in the film who hits on the main character and is generally very creepy and gross; I didn't feel like Hastur having a sexual interest in Aziraphale was very in-character so I figured something else out. It's probably very silly but I hope it pays off later in a satisfying manner.


	6. Chapter 6

“I think you like him a bit,” Adam said cheerily as Aziraphale fiddled with what Leonardo called a flying machine. “Admit it!”

“I will do no such thing,” Aziraphale said staunchly, and finally got the flying machine into the sky. “Ah! Look! It’s really flying!”

“Incredible,” Adam agreed. “Just like the last few times you tried it. When are you returning that, by the way?”

“Eventually,” Aziraphale pouted. “Just a few more goes first.” Aziraphale jogged along and tugged the flying machine behind him, making it swoop about. “And I really don’t like him.”

“Of course,” Adam rolled his eyes. “Because talking about him incessantly means you don’t think of him at all.”

“I don’t talk about him incessantly,” Aziraphale frowned. “Not near as much as Gabriel does.”

“No, you’re right about that, at least,” Adam said darkly. “Suppose next time you see the Prince you’ll just tell him point-blank you don’t like him and solve the problem.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I know exactly what I would say,” he sighed. “I’d say, ‘Your Highness, my family is your family. Please, take them away.’ Then they’d move out to the palace and leave the house at last, and I could finally start to get the estate back up on its feet, really turn things around.”

“You’d really say that?”

“Yes!”

“Oh good,” Adam said cheerfully. “Here’s your big chance. He’s headed this way.”

“What?” Aziraphale cried, looking around, and indeed Adam was right, the Prince was riding up the hill on his horse, the Captain of the Guard along with him, and Aziraphale squeaked and ran behind a hay pile to hide.

“You, there!” he heard the Prince call when he was close enough. “Have you seen Signore da Vinci about?”

“Me? See da Vinci?” Adam gasped, and Aziraphale almost laughed. “I—why would you—I’m a humble painter, sir, not worthy to—”

“Is that not his flying machine, then?” the Captain asked, and Aziraphale cursed quietly and, with an apologetic thought flung towards dear Leonardo, tossed the spool and string of the flying machine away. “Where did you get it?”

“I—uh—I’m borrowing it,” Adam said. “From—” Aziraphale could almost hear the mischievous gears turning in Adam’s mind, and groaned quietly. “From—from a friend of his.”

“Which friend?” the Prince asked.

“I’ve heard tell he goes by Angel in court,” Adam said loudly. Aziraphale bit down on the inside of his cheek. The little snipe!

“Angel?” the Prince said quickly. “Where is he? Do you know him? What’s your name, so I have some reference?”

“My name is Adam,” Adam said, “and as for Angel, if he hasn’t said, I certainly won’t say, but I will tell you who he’s staying with.”

“Quickly! Tell me,” the Prince urged.

“He’s staying with his cousin, the Baroness Michael,” Adam said, and there was the charging of a horse. “Awfully impatient, isn’t he?”

“You have no idea,” the Captain said. “So your name’s Adam?”

“It is,” Adam said, and Aziraphale deeply wished the Captain would go so Adam was free to receive the clip round the ear he was desperately deserving of. “And you are?”

“Warlock,” the Captain said. “I should go, but…do you…occupy this field often?”

“Often enough,” Adam replied. “You might even see me here again later, if you were inclined to check.” Adam cleared his throat. “It belongs to the Baroness, who is not home, and to where the Prince is riding at this very moment, so anyone hiding around here hoping to meet him ought to get a head start!”

Aziraphale heard the warning and left off eavesdropping on the rest of Adam and Warlock’s conversation in favor of running full-tilt at the house, skirting the woods and jumping walls. He was fervently grateful it was Sunday and therefore the house was more or less empty except for the servants.

“Anathema! Newt!” Aziraphale cried, bursting into the house. “He’s coming, I need—quick!”

After ten frantic minutes of explaining the situation, struggling into a nice tunic with Newt’s help, and having Anathema take a comb to his hair, there was a knock on the door, and Aziraphale hurriedly brushed himself down and looked to Newt and Anathema for validation.

“You look fine, now go!” Anathema whispered fiercely, and pushed Aziraphale towards the door. Aziraphale hustled down the stairs, took a moment to breathe, and calmly opened up the door, hoping he didn’t look flustered.

“Hello.” The Prince’s smile was blinding, and Aziraphale resisted the urge to blink and hide his eyes. “I was hoping I’d find you.”

“In need of another lecture, then, Highness?” Aziraphale said lightly, smiling when that elicited a laugh.

“I should be so lucky,” the Prince beamed. “No, today I’m off to the monastery to keep up some semblance of piety, but I can’t seem to find Signore da Vinci. I’m forced to seek other exceptional company.” The Prince pushed some of his fiery hair back from his face in a charmingly careless sort of way. Aziraphale gulped. “Would you perhaps like to see the biggest library in France this afternoon?”

Aziraphale clutched his heart, his eyes going wide. “Oh,” he breathed, “that’s—that’s hardly fair, sire.”

“What is?” the Prince looked genuinely concerned that he’d misstepped, which was…endearing.

“You’ve uncovered my weakness,” Aziraphale sighed. “And I’ve yet to learn yours.”

“I think mine’s pretty obvious, Angel,” the Prince said, and his face turned pink. Aziraphale opened his mouth but had no idea what to say in answer. They shuffled uncomfortably for a moment before the Prince cleared his throat loudly. “Um. Anyway. Let’s—let’s go, shall we?”

Aziraphale needed no convincing to let the Prince hand him into his carriage, and poked his head out of the window when he heard further hoofbeats approaching. Aziraphale was certain for a second that the Baroness was about to catch him out, but it was just Captain Warlock. The Prince seemed pleased to see him.

“Ah, Captain Warlock, there you are! Thought I’d lost you,” the Prince grinned. “Pleasant chat with the painter, was it?”

The Captain grunted but didn’t answer beyond that.

“Anyway, I don’t need you today,” the Prince said, and Captain Warlock frowned at him, then looked to Aziraphale, who was still looking out of the carriage window. “No other guards, no trappings, I’m just—” the Prince looked into the carriage, right at Aziraphale, and his smile grew soft, private. “I’m just Crowley today.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help his small answering smile in return to the gentle look being shown his way.

The monastery wasn’t too far by coach, less than an hour, and as they stepped inside Aziraphale had to clutch his hands to his breast to stop them from doing anything foolish, like touching books or grabbing other hands in delight.

“You can pick one out to borrow, if you’d like,” the Prince—Crowley—said gently.

“Easier to choose a star in the heavens,” Aziraphale murmured, drinking in the sight of them as he and Crowley ascended the stairs to find yet more shelves stuffed with books and folios. “To think…to think, all this knowledge and the stories and the history, stored up in one place, where a person may come and read if they wish!” Aziraphale caught himself. “Or—or I wish that were the case, anyway. Lord knows how the lower classes would benefit from proper access to such treasures.”

“Ah. Provide them an education and reduce the criminal element, yes?” Crowley said. “That was your original argument, as I recall.”

“And I stand by that,” Aziraphale smiled. “I…I’m surprised you remember.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Crowley blinked, running a hand along the spines absently. “You taught me more in five minutes than I managed to absorb in over a decade of formal schooling. None of my tutors spoke with half the passion you did, and I was stuck in a debate course for the better part of a season.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just smiled shyly and perused the books at the shelf they seemed parked at. “Schooling is invaluable, but not, perhaps, for everyone. They should at least have the option, in my opinion. Catch a man a fish, he eats for a day—”

“Teach a man to fish, and he complains about the over-abundance of seafood in his diet for the rest of his life,” Crowley interrupted, and Aziraphale laughed. The Prince’s amber gaze felt like a warm golden weight in his chest, and he snuck a glance at the Prince from the corner of his eye. Crowley was leaning on the shelf, but his face and body were turned towards Aziraphale, paying rapt attention. “Why do books move you like this, do you think?”

“Besides their obvious force for good in the world?” Aziraphale smiled. “My father used to bring home books from his travels, before he died. His last gift to me was _Utopia_ , by Thomas More.”

“Ah,” Crowley snorted. “This explains much.”

“Perhaps not the light reading appropriate for a boy of eight, but I loved it,” Aziraphale smiled. “He used to read to me all the time, whenever he had a moment.”

“You must miss him,” Crowley said quietly. Aziraphale’s fluttering hands stilled, and one went to his heart to ease the old, old ache there.

“Very much,” Aziraphale said softly. “Every day, since he left.”

“And…your mother?”

“Died when I was but an infant,” Aziraphale shrugged. “I never knew her. My father remarried, just before he died.” The smile on his face turned sour and slid off. “His other parting gift to me has…rather not panned out as I’m sure he’d hoped.”

“Is that why you’re with your cousin?” Crowley asked. “To escape your step-parent?”

Aziraphale gave a startled laugh. “Oh! I—well—you could—you could look at it that way, I suppose.”

“To prefer Baroness Michael and Gabriel and whatever her other son’s name is to your father’s spouse’s company…they must be awful,” Crowley said, and then blanched when Aziraphale’s eyebrows raised. “Oh, I—that was horrible even for me, I’m—”

“No, you’re not wrong,” Aziraphale said, and pushed a book back in place with a vindictive little huff. “You’re not wrong.”

“I wish I was,” Crowley said, taking a step forward, and Aziraphale let him, turning to face him and putting the two of them a bit closer than was maybe proper. “You…don’t deserve the company of those who don’t appreciate you.” Aziraphale looked up into Crowley’s face and almost smiled as Crowley’s eyes darted and he chewed on his lip. “Um. Have you—have you read _The Odyssey_? I thought it was going to be dull but it’s far more exciting than I was expecting—”

Though the subject change was less than graceful, the rest of the morning and early afternoon passed in a comfortable haze of liquid sunshine and the smell of old books, the subjects ranging from the books’ contents to various details about Aziraphale and Crowley’s personal lives. Aziraphale was certain he had more than talked the Prince’s ear off, but he never seemed bored, never asked for him to quit, just listened with bright interest and contributed like a well-versed conversationalist should. At the tipping point between afternoon and late afternoon but still not quite evening, Aziraphale and Crowley finally made their way out of the monastery, Aziraphale clutching a copy of a philosophy text that Crowley had sworn could kill a man with boredom and Aziraphale was determined to prove him wrong.

The carriage made it to the wooded section of the road before a horrible grinding and snapping sound lurched the carriage, throwing Crowley into Aziraphale’s lap. They stared at each other for a few long, long seconds before Crowley harrumphed and excused himself from Aziraphale’s personal space, exiting the carriage to see what was the matter. He stuck his head back in after a moment or two.

“Broken wheel,” Crowley grumped, holding out a hand to help Aziraphale out of the carriage. “Might take a while to fix.”

“That’s alright, we can walk the rest of the way and send back help, if necessary,” Aziraphale said brightly, looking up at the trees. They looked a bit familiar; he was certain he knew a shortcut nearby.

“Walk back?” Crowley said blankly as Aziraphale set off down the road. “It’s miles and miles away, it’ll take the rest of the day to walk!”

“Honestly, your Highness, where’s your sense of adventure?” Aziraphale grinned over his shoulder. The Prince made several aborted consonant sounds and then groaned, jogging after him.

“You’ll be the death of me, Angel,” Crowley hissed, but didn’t look at all put out. If Aziraphale had to guess, he actually looked a bit pleased, and a part of Aziraphale was certain he was pleased for the same reason Aziraphale was, and that was a little more time alone together. He was ever so good at keeping the conversation interesting, even if Aziraphale did want to smack him sometimes for being categorically wrong about something (oysters were delicious and he would fight on that point).

By evening they were hopelessly lost and helplessly laughing about it.

“You are a rubbish navigator,” Crowley declared when they passed a cliff face they’d passed at least three times before. “There’s nothing for it but to get to high ground, climb a tree.”

“Oh, let me,” Aziraphale said, and started unlacing his fine tunic. Crowley gulped and made more of those curious half-sounds.

“What are you doing?” he asked as Aziraphale shrugged out of his tunic and laid it carefully on a branch, conscious of being in his undershirt but not particularly caring about it. Would hardly be the first time, after all.

“One of us ought to climb up there and see if we can find the castle, and if it was you, you might break your royal neck, and then where would we be?” Aziraphale said briskly, bracing himself against the cliff face and beginning to scale a particularly solid oak tree. He was conscious of Crowley making vague noises at him but lost himself in the work of climbing. He hadn’t climbed in years, but consistent hard labor had kept his limbs strong enough to keep going with relatively little effort.

“I can’t believe I’m down here and you’re up there,” Crowley called when Aziraphale was high enough to start seeing where they were.

“Better me than you, sire,” Aziraphale called back, looking around. It was wondrous to see the treetops like this, but he was looking for the spires of the palace; he narrowed his eyes, squinting, doing his best to look about, and… “Ah! There it is! Due east!”

“You…you argue philosophy,” Crowley shouted, “and climb trees, and swim in lakes, and free servants. Is there anything you don’t do?”

Aziraphale smiled down at him and spread his arms, making sure his legs were firmly wrapped around his branch. “Fly.” He laughed as Crowley’s sputtering noises reached him. “I’m coming down, now. Take care not to peek.”

“Bit late for that, Ang—” Crowley’s teasing abruptly cut off in favor of his own yelp of pain, and before Aziraphale could blink the clearing below was swarming with the local bandit gang. Crowley appeared to be locked in a tussle with one, though as Aziraphale watched the Prince rolled away from his attacker and drew his sword.

“Stay up there, Angel, it’ll be safer,” Crowley yelled, and engaged in a duel with two armed bandits. Aziraphale climbed down as fast as he could, but he did notice a bandit with a sash lifting his nice tunic from its resting place on a nearby branch. Said bandit leered up at him as the chaos unfolded.

“My husband thanks you for this fine garment, sir,” the bandit crowed.

“You will give that back as soon as I’m on the ground,” Aziraphale scowled. When he was low enough, another bandit grabbed him and attempted to pull him down; Aziraphale used his weight and height advantage to bring the bandit to the ground instead and squash him, rolling away only when the man wheezed in pain.

Crowley, by then, was being held down by two bandits while the bandit in the sash, apparently the leader, was observing the proceedings with lazy amusement. Aziraphale took purposeful strides towards them, but stilled when he was grabbed from behind and a knife was held to his throat.

“Enough!” Crowley snarled, struggling against his captors, his eyes wide and fixed on Aziraphale. “Enough, it’s—take me, let him go!”

The bandit leader considered Aziraphale thoughtfully, cleaning their fingernails with a dagger. “Our quarrel is with His Highness for a dip in the lake my son took a couple weeks ago,” the bandit leader said. Aziraphale heard Crowley’s quiet swear and eye-roll. “Go on. Let the soft one free. No need to take more than necessary.”

Aziraphale adjusted his undertunic and breathed an irritable sigh through his nose as he was released. He glared at the leader, but did not approach. “I demand you return my things, sir,” Aziraphale sniffed, indicating the nice shirt slung over the leader’s shoulder. “And since you deprive me of my escort, I demand a horse, as well.”

Crowley made a small noise of protest. Aziraphale glanced at him and crooked the tiniest of smiles. The bandit leader laughed long and hard.

“Milord,” the leader grinned, “you may have anything you can carry away from this place.”

“Your word on that, please, sir?” Aziraphale said, raising an eyebrow.

“On my honor, soft one,” the leader beamed, petting the tunic on their shoulder. “Whatever you can carry.”

Aziraphale considered them for a moment. Then he stalked to the bandit nearest Crowley, taking their still-sheathed sword. He swished it a few times, deemed the balance adequate, and then walked towards the Prince. Crowley looked up at him, wide-eyed, but Aziraphale merely ducked down far enough to sling Crowley over his shoulder.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Aziraphale said brightly, bobbing a neat little bow with ease, and ignored both Crowley’s embarrassed gulps and the bandits’ laughter as he started due east.

“Come back!” the bandit leader howled, definitely with mirth. “Come back, I’ll give you a horse!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The film gives no explanation on where the main character managed to get her hands on one of Leonardo's flying machines, she just sort of has one. Presumably they met up again at some point and Leonardo let her have it, and maybe that's a deleted scene I never bothered to watch, but I'm still so tickled by it that I didn't bother changing it. Suddenly: Flying Machine! :P 
> 
> Yes, here's some of that background Adam/Warlock I mentioned in the tags. It is extremely light and backgroundy but this is not the last time it's mentioned.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains physical abuse near the end, nothing graphic, but it's mentioned. Please take care of yourselves.

Ah. Ligur. There you are,” Michael said as her associate furtively approached them once they had left the morning service. “What news?”

“Nothing on the Prince,” Ligur grunted, “but I brought you something.”

Michael raised an eyebrow as Ligur passed her a linen handkerchief wrapped around something heavy. She peeked at its contents, and her other eyebrow joined the first. “Oh,” she purred, “this will do _very_ nicely.” She cast a smile at Ligur, who leered back. “Well done, sir.”

“Just a little something to help the young master along,” Ligur said in a low voice. “Thought it might please you.”

“Extremely,” Michael nodded, inclining her head and holding out a hand for Ligur to bow over, and once respect had been paid, Ligur slipped the gold coins from her palm into his pocket. “My thanks, Ligur. Now go see what you can dig up about where our wayward Prince is today.”

“My lady,” Ligur bowed, and scuttled off. Michael turned to Gabriel and passed him the bundle.

“Wait until Her Majesty leaves the church,” Michael murmured. “Return this to her. Be charming about it.”

“I’m always charming,” Gabriel grinned. Sandalphon harrumphed. Michael touched his cheek, then turned around to wait. Queen Francis emerged some time later, in deep conversation with her ladies-in-waiting.

“Go,” Michael instructed, and watched as Gabriel approached. He bowed deeply for the Queen, then presented her with the jeweled pendant Ligur had no doubt pilfered from the Queen’s chambers that morning.

“You dropped this, your Majesty,” Gabriel said. The Queen’s eyes widened.

“My goodness!” the Queen exclaimed, taking the pendant back and examining it. “I do not even remember putting it on. Thank you, child! It’s a rare person who would return such a treasure.”

“You are too magnanimous, Majesty,” Gabriel replied, bowing again. “A blessed Sabbath to you and God save you.”

“You as well,” the Queen said, and Gabriel took two steps back to Michael before the Queen spoke again. “Oh, Gabriel?” He turned back to her. “Do come to the palace tomorrow afternoon and join me for refreshments in my gardens. Bring your mother.”

“As you wish, Majesty,” Gabriel bowed. Michael waited until the Queen’s carriage passed by before celebrating, pinching Gabriel’s cheek and beaming at him.

“Beautiful performance, my son,” Michael grinned. “Elegantly done.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Gabriel preened. “Where do you suppose the Prince is today?”

“No idea,” Michael sighed. “But an audience with the Queen is much more invaluable than knowing where he is at any given moment. Impressing her is paramount right now; she has the power to approve or disapprove any matches the Prince thinks to make for himself.”

“I’ll wait at home tomorrow, then, shall I?” Sandalphon said drily.

“Patience, love,” Michael said, starting towards their own carriage with her sons in tow. “What Gabriel does is for all of us. We’ll get you settled once Gabriel is on the throne.”

“Fine,” Sandalphon grumbled, but Michael wasn’t worried about him. Once they were living in the palace, the next intrigue would be getting Sandalphon married off. Maybe to a foreigner, some international property would be lovely. Italy, perhaps.

Michael plotted and she planned and she barely even noticed that Aziraphale was missing that day.

Barely.

.

Crowley and Aziraphale had found themselves being invited to the bandits’ camp for supper, and then escorted there amidst general hilarity as Aziraphale refused to put Crowley down, merely adjusted his carrying style (bridal rather than over the shoulder). Since arriving, Aziraphale had arm-wrestled no fewer than six bandits, beating every one, and was being lauded as a strong-arm. Whatever grudge the leader’s son held for the lake incident, it seemed to have no bearing anymore.

The evening had turned out very pleasant, and Aziraphale had especially enjoyed the last hour as he and Crowley sat comfortably by a fire, drinking the bandits’ homemade beer and enjoying their hearty food. Crowley’s face was still slightly pink whenever he looked at Aziraphale directly, which was often. The cooks had insisted they both have double portions, Aziraphale to keep up his strength, Crowley to stop being such a skinny thing. Neither had been able to finish their second portions, though Aziraphale got close. Somehow or another their conversation had gone from a back-and-forth to a game of boulder-parchment-shears, in which the loser had to divulge a secret.

“You are reading my thoughts, Highness,” Aziraphale laughed at the fourth victory Crowley attained in a row.

“I can barely make out my own at this point, Angel,” Crowley grinned. “Double or nothing, one last round.”

“I can’t imagine what you think you’re fishing for,” Aziraphale smiled (though he could, really, he was still answering only to “Angel”).

“Maybe I’m looking to share,” Crowley shrugged. “Here’s a secret: my next choice will be parchment.”

Aziraphale picked shears, and true to his word, Crowley picked parchment; they laughed as Aziraphale mimed cutting it, their fingers warm wherever they brushed.

“Very well, then, sire, it had better be a good one,” Aziraphale grinned, taking a long pull from his flagon. Crowley’s smile softened. He took a deep breath.

“I…I don’t want to be King,” Crowley said softly. “I’ve no interest in it. Been a weight around my neck since birth.”

Aziraphale’s smile faded. “Is that why you run away so often?”

“I see palace gossip holds steady as ever,” Crowley grimaced.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale smiled. “Regardless of if you want it, sire, the responsibility is still yours. You were born into privilege, and that comes with specific obligations.”

“But for all I am to be just a face, just a servant to France…” Crowley shook his head. “I don’t want to _be_ just that. I didn’t ask for it.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “You…you do know that accepting the crown does not mean the crown is all you are, correct?”

“Doesn’t it?” Crowley asked bitterly. “My mother certainly seems to think so.”

“No,” Aziraphale shook his head. “For instance, take these bandits. Oftentimes, with a group this large, certain members are born into it, are told since birth that they are to look out for their group and take from others, and taught the tools of their trade. Yet we see tonight, many of them are musicians, and cooks, and artists. A bandit is what they do, but it is not who they are. You don’t have to lose yourself to do your best in the responsibilities granted to you.”

The Prince’s grumpy expression faded while Aziraphale spoke, until it was a look of such focused tenderness Aziraphale felt naked under his eyes. He laughed nervously.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale flushed. “My mouth’s run off with me again.”

“Don’t apologize,” Crowley murmured. When did his face get so close? “It took my heart with it, I think. And it went willingly.”

The first gentle press of Crowley’s lips to Aziraphale’s was awkward, but they found a rhythm soon enough, the Prince reaching out to cradle Aziraphale’s face in his hands, Aziraphale reaching out to steady himself against the Prince’s shoulders. There was a roar of laughter from the bandits around them, and Aziraphale broke the kiss long enough to smile at Crowley before Crowley, beaming back, pulled him back in.

It was nearly dawn by the time Crowley and Aziraphale, sharing a horse, made it back to Aziraphale’s home.

“Not too close,” Aziraphale cautioned, and Crowley pulled back on the reins. “I don’t want to wake the house.”

“I don’t blame you,” Crowley said, sliding off the horse to help Aziraphale down. He needed no such help, but the act of letting Crowley lift him down pressed them together when both their feet were on the ground, perfect for stealing a few more kisses.

“I should go,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Few more minutes,” Crowley growled, his fingers tight in Aziraphale’s curls, and Aziraphale laughed, nudging Crowley’s forehead with his own.

“You’re insatiable, sire,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Crowley,” he protested. Aziraphale gave him one last, lingering kiss.

“Crowley,” he agreed. “Goodnight.”

“Night.” Crowley stole a final quick peck and let him go. “There’s a ruined cathedral not far from here—do you know it?” Aziraphale nodded. The ruins were common knowledge. “Meet me there tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’ll try,” Aziraphale promised, taking a very reluctant step back as Crowley swung back up on the horse.

“I’ll wait, Angel,” Crowley promised, grinning, his eyes shining. “All day, if I must.”

“Be safe,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley leaned over in the saddle for really, truly, one last kiss of the night, before pushing the horse to a light trot back towards the castle. Aziraphale watched him go with a full heart and bruised lips.

“Goodnight,” he said again to the air, and started walking back to his little room and bed.

.

“Mother!”

The Queen of France yelped and threw a pillow as the heavy curtains of her four-poster bed were thrown aside. The pillow bounced off her son’s manic smile as he beamed down at her. He looked both like he hadn’t slept a wink and that he’d crawled home through the woods. Both were entirely possible.

“I’ve decided,” Crowley announced, “that I want to open a university where anyone can study no matter their station. It needs a library, the biggest in the world.”

“Uh-huh,” Queen Francis mumbled, relaxing when it became apparent she wasn’t under attack. “Who are you, and what have you done with my son?”

Crowley laughed. “Oh, any chance of inviting the bandits to the ball?”

“I’ll consider it,” Francis sighed. So much to do, and she’d booked a light luncheon with that charming lad Gabriel, too…could she get away with another hour of sleep?

“Come on, Mother, there’s a masque to plan and I have some ideas for it, I’ll have breakfast sent for while we get started,” Crowley chirped. “I have some plans for the afternoon but this morning I need you.” Francis groaned. She took back every wish she’d ever made for her son to actually engage with his position and duties. What switch had flipped for him over the course of a day? Francis pondered this as she chased him from her room and waited for her handmaids to begin readying her for the day. A smile curled on her face.

She hoped she’d get to meet the lucky courtier soon. It was a powerful person, to turn her son’s obstinate head so. She would go along with his plans for the day, see where they took her. And as for tea with Gabriel and Baroness Michael, it couldn’t hurt to line up some contingency plans, in case (God forbid) the bubble of Crowley’s happiness broke prematurely.

.

A broomstick thwapped across Aziraphale’s middle, and he gasped, jolting upright.

“Are you ill?” Baroness Michael demanded.

“No!” Aziraphale cried. Then his slight hangover and sleep deprivation caught up, and he sank back to his pillow. “Ugh. Yes.”

“What about our breakfast?” Gabriel insisted. Ugh, they were all there, Michael and her goonish sons, glaring down at Aziraphale. Tired as he was, he had no energy to hide away the little flame of rebellion suddenly kindled by looking at his step-family and realizing that, right under their noses, he had at least a piece of a prince’s heart, and he’d done it without putting on airs or devising intrigues. They were rather pathetic, weren’t they?

“You have two hands,” Aziraphale croaked. “Make it yourself, for once.”

Gabriel gasped. Sandalphon’s eyes widened. Baroness Michael’s eyes narrowed.

“Sandalphon,” Michael said, “be a dear and fetch water from the well. Leave it in the kitchen and ask the others to start boiling it for our eggs.”

Sandalphon looked at her, then glared at Aziraphale, then stomped out of Aziraphale’s tiny quarters. Aziraphale rolled over, and the broom prodded him again.

“You were gone all day yesterday, and judging by the state of you, all night, as well,” Michael said. “I demand to know why.”

“Why don’t you tell me so I can get back to sleep, since you know everything,” Aziraphale mumbled. He heard Gabriel’s little noises of disbelief and felt Michael’s glare, but after a few minutes the broom thudded to the ground and Michael and Gabriel left. Aziraphale drifted back off to sleep, dreaming of firebrand hair and laughing amber eyes.

He was feeling a bit proud of himself up until the moment, mid-morning, when he was walking back from weeding the garden and Wensleydale poked his head from an upstairs window, looking worried.

“You might want to come see,” he urged, and Aziraphale frowned.

His eyes nearly fell out of his head when he reached Gabriel’s room and saw him prancing around in Aziraphale’s mother’s shoes, while Michael ran her hands over the silver brocade that had been the matching dress.

“What…what do you think you are doing?” Aziraphale said softly, and this time, nobody in the room so much as glanced at him.

“Breaking in my new shoes,” Gabriel said brightly, and stumbled, cursing.

“Did you honestly think I’d let you go anywhere after that display this morning?” Michael sniffed. “Besides, Gabriel nearly has the whole royal family eating out of his hand, or will, after this afternoon. This is what he needs to secure the Prince’s proposal.”

“Do you really think,” Aziraphale said, unable to get ahead of his mouth, “that these—these games will win you a crown? He is a _person_ , not a prize stag you can hunt down and catch if you’re clever enough!”

“Close enough,” Gabriel said, stepping out of the shoes and throwing them carelessly on his bed. “All people have a price, Cindersoot. It’s just a matter of finding it.”

“Not like this, you won’t,” Aziraphale said, stalking to the bed and snatching his shoes back. “These were my mother’s.”

“And she’s dead, it’s not like she’ll be needing them,” Gabriel smirked.

There was a loud ringing, blood rushing in Aziraphale’s ears, and he stepped around the bed, hauled back, and punched Gabriel in the eye.

He was conscious of Gabriel screaming, and Aziraphale himself yelling, of grabbing a poker from the fireplace as he chased Gabriel down the stairs, dodging Sandalphon and shoving him away. When Aziraphale got his hands on Gabriel, he would beat him within an inch of his life and make him beg forgiveness from both Aziraphale and his mother, he thought furiously. Their chase led to Aziraphale’s room somehow, and Gabriel snatched up the battered copy of _Utopia_ and held it over the fireplace.

“Get away from me, or so help me God—”

“Don’t, don’t, Gabriel, please—”

“And now we come to it,” Baroness Michael’s cold voice sounded in Aziraphale’s ears as the poker was yanked from his nerveless grasp; in retaliation, Aziraphale gripped the shoes tighter. “Your father’s book or your mother’s shoes, Aziraphale. Though neither will save you from a sound lashing.”

Aziraphale heaved with breath. The pounding in his ears was steady. Gabriel’s eye was already swollen shut, but the other was blazing with violet fire, fear and fury all in one.

They were just shoes. Aziraphale was never going to get to wear them. The book…the book was precious. His own, for all these lonely years. Aziraphale let the shoes fall from his grasp. Gabriel snarled and pitched the book into the open flames.

“No!” Aziraphale howled, fighting Sandalphon’s bear grip around him, hanging limp and sobbing as the old paper went up in smoke almost instantly. He was still weeping aloud as he was dragged to the garden to receive his punishment. He only fell silent when the lashing started, refusing to give Michael the satisfaction of more than his tears.

 _I’m sorry, Father,_ Aziraphale prayed as Michael’s face curved in a satisfied smile over Aziraphale’s hunched, trembling form. Sandalphon brought the lash down again. _I’m sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of character? Maybe. But Gabriel has always deserved a good punch in the eye, tbh.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are entering the Sad Zone and will be here for a few chapters, pls hang in there and enjoy my butchering of one of the funniest moments in the entire movie.

Aziraphale made his way to the ruins with a heavy heart and an aching back. Anathema had done her best, but the lash wounds were still unbearably tender. Aziraphale gritted his teeth against the pain, thinking over what he had to say. It had gone too far—he never meant to fall head over heels for an insufferable, clever, beautiful prince, but here Aziraphale was, with the taste of Crowley still lingering on his tongue and the sure knowledge that they couldn’t live in this fantasy forever heavy on his mind.

The ruins drew near, and Aziraphale saw that Crowley was ensconced in a window, flipping through a book—the book Aziraphale had chosen from the monastery, in fact; Aziraphale was surprised he would remember to bring back such a professed hated tome of philosophy just because Aziraphale had been curious about it. Aziraphale’s steps stuttered in the dead leaves, and his breath hitched, drawing Crowley’s attention from the book.

Crowley’s smile when he saw Aziraphale there stole his train of thought. Crowley stood and walked across the broken flagstones in a few deft strides, and Aziraphale watched, helpless, as the sun and dappled shadows from the leaves played off his beautiful hair, lit up the sharp angles of his face. The eager, happy kisses Crowley bestowed on him emptied his lungs.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped, clutching his shoulders, “do be careful, dear.”

“Careful of what?” Crowley asked, his hands on Aziraphale’s hips.

“You’ve quite stolen my breath away,” Aziraphale murmured. “I’m afraid I need it to live.”

“You should borrow some of mine, then,” Crowley murmured back, and several minutes passed before a bird’s call brought them back down to reality. Crowley smiled ruefully as Aziraphale broke the kiss, then reached down to grab his hand. “Come on. I’ve something to show you.”

Aziraphale let Crowley lead but was not entirely conscious of their journey deeper into the ruins. Crowley was saying something, and Aziraphale tried his best to focus back in and listen, but it was difficult, between his stinging back and the warm hand in his and the weight in his chest.

“—mother used to come here to play as a child,” Crowley was saying. “I used to come here often, myself. Pretend I was a pirate or some other kind of adventurer.”

Aziraphale smiled at the image. “I’m certain your adventures were grand.”

“I certainly thought they were,” Crowley laughed, and stopped. “Okay. Look.”

Aziraphale looked, and couldn’t help the gasp. Inside the ruins of the old cathedral was a great hall whose floor was mostly moss and ceiling was all trees, and Aziraphale put his free hand over his heart in astonishment. “It’s beautiful.”

“I had the decorators for the masque ball take some pointers from this place,” Crowley said, and shrugged at Aziraphale’s glance. “I…I’m hoping I can count on your attendance, next week? I would love nothing more than—more than to tell people of my decision, if you’re…amenable.”

“Decision?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley bit his lip.

“I used to think…I used to think that if I let myself care too much about things, I would care too much about everything at once and lose myself,” Crowley said, and let go of Aziraphale’s hand to walk further into the canopy of ancient trees, running his hand down trunks as if they were old friends. “Thank you for showing me the right path, Angel.”

“The right path?” Aziraphale frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”

Crowley looked at him, his face uncharacteristically serious, his amber eyes intense. “I told you last night that I don’t want to rule. That’s still true, but if I must, thank you for showing me that in order to be the best I can be in my role, I have to care. And…caring doesn’t mean I’m losing myself.” He quirked a smile and scuffed the toe of his fine boot in the dirt. Aziraphale’s heart gave a weak flutter. “I’ve…never felt more myself then when I was caring so much about you, after all.”

“Sire,” Aziraphale said weakly.

“Crowley,” Crowley corrected. “It…it would make me happy, if you would come to the masque. If you would…maybe…agree to talk to my mother with me. Show her that…that I’m making the right choice. If you want.”

“The right choice? Crowley—”

“The point of the masque is to announce my engagement, you know,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale felt the penny drop and his eyebrows rise nearly off his face. Crowley fidgeted. “If you want…I would be…I would be so happy if you would agree to be the name announced with mine there.”

Aziraphale gasped despite himself. He felt his eyes prickling. He laughed, not entirely in sadness. “You’re not making this easy,” Aziraphale smiled, more than a little watery. “But I—”

“Wait,” Crowley said, and walked back over to him, taking his hands in his own. “Okay. I’m ready now. What did you need to tell me, Angel?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, only to find it thick with tears. His eyes were blurring. He had to do this. He must. But—if this was the last time he would get to see Crowley—if it was all to end as a pleasant dream—

Aziraphale crushed his mouth to Crowley’s, who responded with matched desperation as Aziraphale wound his fingers in that rich, royal hair. Crowley pulled Aziraphale flush against him, pressing his hand right on the precise middle of the worst of Aziraphale’s lash marks. Aziraphale could neither help nor stop the cry of pain he gasped into Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley stopped kissing him immediately, holding him by the arms as if he were about to fall.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, the alarm clear in his face and voice. “Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”

Now weeping in earnest, Aziraphale shook his head, putting his hands over Crowley’s, wishing he could keep them there rather than having to pry him off. As if on cue, the Royal Guard’s trumpet sounded nearby, startling Crowley into turning towards the sound. Aziraphale took a few steps back, using Crowley’s distraction to his advantage.

“Goodbye, your Highness,” Aziraphale choked out. “I—I wish you—all happiness.”

Then, ignoring Crowley’s pleas and cries of his name (not really his name, after all, just a nickname Crowley had given him when Aziraphale refused to tell him), Aziraphale ran for home, knowing his endurance would outstrip Crowley’s if he decided to give chase, and also knowing that his feet would carry him home even as his eyes were blinded with bitter tears.

.

“You really must have my physician take a look at you,” Queen Francis fussed. Gabriel and his mother, the Baroness Michael, had been ever so slightly late, Gabriel sporting a swollen black eye. “To think that you saved that baby from a runaway horse, and only got a black eye for it! You might have been killed!”

“Call it a paternal instinct, Majesty,” Gabriel said modestly, touching the delicate edge of his bruise.

“Simply remarkable,” Francis smiled. “I would have had my son join us, but he’s disappeared…again.” Francis sighed. “He was gone all day yesterday and didn’t return until dawn. He’s been sneaking off more and more frequently ever since he met his mysterious Angel.”

“A man is allowed to be rambunctious in his youth, Majesty,” Michael said serenely, sipping wine with an elegance that was a credit to her fine breeding. “Heaven knows even my boys have had their moments.”

“Perhaps you can shed some insight, Baroness,” Francis mused. “I’ve conducted my own inquiries, but no one seems to know who my Crowley’s Angel really is. Do you know of any young men with pale curls and a lovely smile?”

Baroness Michael, who had been about to sip again, set her goblet down untouched. She narrowed her eyes. “This pale-haired Angel…he wouldn’t happen to have blue eyes, would he? Changeable in the light? And a bit of a tummy?”

“Crowley has written amateur poetry about those eyes,” Francis beamed. “And he’s said Angel was soft, so I suppose a bit of a tummy wouldn’t be amiss. Oh, wonderful, a lead! I was beginning to think he was a real angel and didn’t exist on this plane with us!”

“No, he’s been around for years,” Michael said, her voice exceptionally mild. “Staying with us recently, in fact.”

“Are you Angel’s mysterious cousins, then?” Francis smiled. “All Crowley knows about his Angel’s home life is that he’s visiting family.”

“We are,” Michael said with a sharp smile. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Um—yeah,” Gabriel blinked. “Our—um—our cousin.”

“Whom you like to call Cindersoot,” Michael hinted. Francis stared as Gabriel stiffened. Then he stood, walked a few feet away, and proceeded to have some kind of violent fit, stomping his feet and screeching. Then he took a breath, composed himself, and carefully sank back into his chair, the picture of genteel grace.

“Good heavens, child,” Francis gasped. “Are you alright?”

“There was a bee,” Gabriel said meekly.

The conversation continued, but Francis shot him a look every so often. Maybe he wasn’t such a smart fit for Crowley after all. Two touchy, spirited tempers in a relationship rarely boded well.

“It’s a shame, really,” Michael sighed. “Our cousin will be leaving us soon, in fact.”

“Oh?” Francis frowned.

“Yes,” Michael sniffed. “It’s very sudden, but he’s recently become engaged. To a Belgian.”

“I see,” Francis frowned harder. “My son will be terribly upset. Is there—perhaps this is not for me to ask, but if I may be indelicate, is there any way for Angel to break out of it?”

“Oh no, it’s all quite airtight,” Michael said quickly. “A real shame, but I’m certain His Highness will recover. Young men have such fickle passions.”

“Hmm,” Francis hummed. “I’ve never seen Crowley so taken with anyone before.”

“Poor thing,” Michael simpered, but left off when Francis raised her eyebrows at her. “My early condolences to his Highness.”

“Thank you,” Francis said stiffly. If she hurried along the rest of their repast so as to move on to more important duties, her rudeness could be forgiven. She was queen, after all.

Francis pondered this strange interaction all afternoon, until she finally ran into Crowley again, brooding in the gardens and a sight less cheerful than he’d been that morning. He looked exhausted as he sat on the low garden wall, and his eyes were dull as he looked up at her. Oh, dear. Francis sighed with sympathy.

“I have news, my love,” she said, hating to pile more on him, but he needed to know. “I met with the Baroness Michael and her son Gabriel today.”

“Yeah?” Crowley grunted.

“They know your Angel, darling,” Queen Francis said gently. “They said he was…engaged.”

Crowley stiffened. “Engaged?”

“To a Belgian,” Francis nodded.

“A—a Belgian?” Crowley leapt to his feet and paced, the gravel flying. “And Angel never said—a _Belgian_?” He ran a hand through his ravaged hair. “He might’ve said something!”

“Would you have listened?” Francis smiled.

“Well, no, I would’ve tried—oh,” Crowley’s face fell, and he collapsed on the wall again. “He did try. I was too busy pouring my royal guts out at his feet.”

“It’s a strong person who can keep their wits about them with you trying to steal their heart, my son,” Francis said gently, toying with one of his crimson curls. Crowley leaned into the contact, resting his head on her shoulder.

“Clumsy thief, me,” Crowley mumbled.

“There’s still a little time before the masque,” Francis sighed. “Any choice is better than Spain.” She thought of Gabriel’s little tiff. “Well, nearly any choice.”

“Maybe.” Crowley hid his face in her shoulder and Francis let him. It was nice to be just mother and son for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There was a bee" is the second funniest joke in the whole film. The first funniest will be happening a few chapters from now but we have a whole lot to get through before we get to that. Stay with me, darlings, it ends happily.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still in the Sad Zone, quite firmly; bear with me, has to get worse before it gets better.

As luck would have it, it was Baroness Michael who broke Aziraphale of his listless daze.

“Really, it’s bad enough that you throw yourself at the Prince, but thievery in your own home, isn’t that a little beneath you, Aziraphale?” Michael scowled, cornering Aziraphale on the stairwell.

“What bothers you more, madam, that I’m common, or that I’m competition?” Aziraphale snapped before he could control himself. He nearly clamped his hands over his mouth as Michael’s eyes bulged. “What thievery?”

“The dress,” Michael hissed. “The dress and shoes were in my room this morning, and now they’re gone.”

“Why don’t you look with the books?” Aziraphale said, the throbbing of his back and the pounding of his heart unhinging his jaw like nothing before ever had. “And the tapestries, and the hundreds of other missing things in this house? Perhaps the dress is with them.”

“If you don’t produce them right now—” Michael threatened, but Aziraphale, in pain in body and soul, finally snapped.

“I would rather die a thousand times than see my mother’s things on that—that—spoiled, selfish, self-righteous pig you call a son!” Aziraphale shouted, and there, it was out at last, and he could not take it back. Michael’s eyes widened, and then narrowed. She smiled.

“That can be arranged,” she said, and grabbed Aziraphale by the upper arm. She hauled him through the house and threw him into the cellar, then shut the door behind him, locking it from the outside. “If any of you help him, you will regret the day you were brought into this house,” he heard Michael say, and in the cool darkness Aziraphale slumped against the wall, put his head in his hands, and wept. It felt good to do so, cleansing, rather than just a reaction to misery. Whatever was happening to him right now, it felt…liberating, which was ironic given his current circumstance.

“Master Fell?” he heard Brian say at the door, and Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Don’t worry about me, my dear,” Aziraphale called. “Go on about your duties. I’ll be fine.”

“But…the ball,” Pepper protested.

“Please don’t worry,” Aziraphale said, though his voice wobbled. “The Prince is expecting an angel, not me. I’d only disappoint him.”

“You haven’t disappointed him yet, I don’t see why now would be any different,” Pepper retorted.

“Please, Pepper,” Aziraphale begged. “Please, just…go about your day. Please.”

“If that’s what you want,” Pepper said, and Aziraphale went back to his quiet tears. This was…pretty bad, all things considered. Aziraphale hadn’t been planning on going to the masque, not after how things went in the woods, but to have the option taken away from him was excruciating. Of course he would love nothing more than to ride up to the castle and be the one to be taken away from this place, safe in Crowley’s arms, but…some things were not to be.

It was selfish that Aziraphale kept wishing that he could see Crowley one more time, and yet the wishes didn’t stop.

.

“There’s nothing for it,” Pepper said, checking over her shoulder to make sure Baroness Michael and Gabriel were still busy. Deprived of their first option, they were buying another costume last-minute (nearly down to the wire, the ball was that very night). “Adam, you know the Captain, and you’ve spoken to the Prince. You have to tell one of them what’s going on.”

“Why? Not that I don’t want to help Aziraphale, I do, but for all intents and purposes, the Prince thinks Aziraphale’s engaged,” Adam protested. “He has no reason to believe me, and once we tell them what happened, the Prince is going to know that Aziraphale’s been lying about who he is.”

“I mean, he’s going to find out anyway,” Pepper argued.

“But he deserves to find out from Aziraphale himself, not because Michael locked him in a bloody cellar,” Adam argued back. A thought occurred. “Leonardo could help.”

“Leonardo?” Pepper frowned. “Who’s—”

“Super famous painter,” Adam explained. “The one who made the flying machine Aziraphale keeps messing about with, you know.”

“If you think it’ll help, then I trust you,” Pepper said, and looked over her shoulder to see Gabriel coming out of the tailor’s with a bundle, looking pleased as punch. “I’ve got to go, but—be careful, alright? And be fast. Aziraphale doesn’t have much time left to make it right.”

“I know. Thanks for letting me know,” Adam nodded, and watched as Pepper returned to the Baroness. He waited until they left the market, and then Adam ran for the palace, ducking between courtiers as he went. Inside the palace would be the best place to find da Vinci (was he really going to find da Vinci? Was he _actually_ going to speak to the most famous painter of all time?), but how was he going to…

He looked over the wall as he got inside the courtyard of the palace, and saw a dark man with palace livery getting ready to do his business down on the ground. Adam looked around and saw an empty clay pot. Might not be the best idea, but…

Adam whistled, and the man looked up in time to see Adam drop the pot. It shattered against his head, knocking him out cold. Or possibly killing him, there was no time to discern which as Adam hustled down and stripped the man’s clothes from him, dragging him to a quiet corner until he was either found or he woke up. There. Itchy and ill-fitting, but it would do to get him inside.

Adam walked casually but with purpose, looking around the already-filling masque ball floor, which was decorated like a woodland and looked spectacular. Aha—there, by the punch bowl, an older gentleman with a bushy white beard. Adam straightened his clothes, cleared his throat, and said, “Signore da Vinci?”

“Ah, what? Yes?” another older man he didn’t see stood up from behind the table, and Adam jumped.

“Ah, hello, sir, I’m—Adam, I paint, but that’s not,” Adam took a deep breath as Leonardo da Vinci looked at him with vague interest. “It’s—it’s Angel, sir, he’s in trouble and needs help.”

Da Vinci’s bushy eyebrows contracted. “Then why not summon the guard?”

“It’s—he’s not a courtier, he’s a commoner, and his stepmother locked him up, and please will you come, because he and the Prince love each other but they won’t be able to be together unless Angel makes it here to confess and they make it all right,” Adam said in a single breath, and Da Vinci’s furrowed brows raised so far the opposite direction Adam was a little afraid they would leave his face entirely.

“Lead the way, young man.”

.

Aziraphale had been in the cellar for days, his meals passed in to him through the door, and he was worse for wear because of it. He had also been listening to Newt attempting to break or pick the lock for the better part of an hour since Baroness Michael and her sons left (Gabriel in the costume of a peacock, Sandalphon as a horse, and judging by the grumbling, someone was unhappy with that arrangement and it wasn’t Gabriel).

“Stand aside, please,” a familiar but wholly unexpected voice said, and Aziraphale blinked and stood. There was what sounded like the pins being pulled from the hinges, and the door swung open.

“You’re a genius, Signore da Vinci!” Wensleydale cried.

“Yes,” Leonardo beamed, stepping into the cellar, “I shall go down in history as the man who opened a door!”

“Leonardo!” Aziraphale croaked, and, bewildered, accepted a hug from the man himself. “What are you—”

“Your young friend Adam told me everything,” Leonardo said gently. “No wonder you never told us your name, child, if your situation is this bad.”

“I’m afraid I mucked it up worse on my own,” Aziraphale said with a tremulous smile.

“Agree to vehemently disagree on that point,” Leonardo said. “Now, we have very little time to get you washed and dressed and to the masque, but the night is still young.”

“But…” Aziraphale swallowed. “But, sir, I am not a courtier. I’m nobody. How can I face him?”

“Because he deserves to hear the truth,” Leonardo said gently, “from the one he loves.”

Aziraphale teared up, which was understandable, given the last few days. “A bird may love a fish, Signore,” Aziraphale sighed, “but where would they live?”

Leonardo smiled and patted Aziraphale’s cheek. “Then I shall have to make you wings.”

“Your dress is all ready,” Brian chirped. “Or, it’s sort of a dress, sort of a suit. We’ve been finishing it, while you were down here.”

Aziraphale looked, and gasped, covering his mouth. His mother’s dress, so long unfinished, was now a beautiful coat with a long train, and Aziraphale could tell just by looking that it would fit perfectly. Anathema was holding it with pride, and next to her, Wensleydale was waving the glass slippers.

“Oh, that’s marvelous,” Leonardo said happily. “All I need is some silk and some wire, and this will do nicely, indeed.”

“We’ll help you get washed up, Master Fell,” Brian said, and Aziraphale let himself be pulled from his makeshift dungeon and readied for the ball.

.

Aziraphale, dressed in his mother’s hopes and also her shoes, stepped from the carriage and made his way up the stairs to the courtyard of the palace, where every noble family in France was dancing and drinking and enjoying themselves, though currently it seemed the Queen was making an announcement. Aziraphale faltered on the final step and put his hand over his rapidly-beating heart.

“Just breathe,” he said to himself, reassuring himself, steeling his heart and his legs, and taking the final step up to the ball. He could see over all their heads from this vantage point, and at the other end of the courtyard, standing on a raised platform, there was the royal family, the Queen dressed like a butterfly, and Crowley, in solid black with red accents, holding a mask that could have been a snake, but it was difficult to tell from this distance.

“And so,” the Queen announced, “it is my honor to announce the marriage of my son—”

The ripple of the crowd as Aziraphale breathed and took a few steps towards the edge of it seemed to draw Crowley’s attention; his hand shot out and caught his mother by the shoulder, silencing her. Even from a distance, Aziraphale could feel the fire of Crowley’s gaze, and it filled his heart near to bursting. Crowley leapt into the crowd, and Aziraphale waded towards him, careful of the slippers and wings but more interested in meeting him halfway. A wide circle opened up as they reached each other, Crowley grabbing one of Aziraphale’s hands in his.

“I thought you were gone,” Crowley said softly, reaching out and twirling the edge of a wing between his fingers. “They—they said you were engaged. To a Belgian.”

“I’m not,” Aziraphale smiled. “But—but I do need to speak with you. Now.”

Crowley’s smile could have lit up the whole palace. “We can talk to my mother while we do,” he said, and began leading Aziraphale through the crowd towards the stage. Aziraphale’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale tried, but they didn’t get far before something yanked hard on Aziraphale’s back and there was the sound of tearing fabric. Aziraphale cried out as he was pulled out of Crowley’s grip and forced to his knees. To his horror, he looked over his shoulder to see Gabriel holding one wing, and then with another tearing sound he realized Sandalphon was there, too, removing his other wing. Gabriel crumpled and dropped the wing and glared down at him as Sandalphon followed suit and sneered. Their mother appeared between them seconds later.

“How dare you,” Michael said in a low voice, her face white with fury. “After all I’ve done for you—”

“Madam, you’d best tell your sons to get their hands off him,” Crowley snarled, and Aziraphale felt more than saw Crowley going to his knees, one hand reaching for Aziraphale’s cheek. “Angel?”

“Your Highness, I hate to inform you, but this is no courtier,” Michael spat, and Aziraphale closed his eyes as his tears overflowed. Crowley’s hand froze on his face. “Nor is he an angel of any kind. His name is Aziraphale, he is a kitchen servant in my household, and he has been lying to us all.”

“A servant?” Crowley said, and his hand withdrew. “Angel? Is that true?”

Aziraphale forced his eyes open as the crowd murmured around them, and something about Aziraphale looking up at Crowley from his knees made Crowley stand up, his face rigid with shock. “The apples,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale’s expression crumpled. “That was you.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley’s face cracked, morphed. He took a step back.

“I’ll thank you to use my title when addressing me, sir,” Prince Crowley said coldly, and as he turned on his heel there was a loud clap of thunder. Aziraphale felt himself being shoved forward (likely by Sandalphon) and used the momentum to run—to scramble upright, to escape as best he could. He stumbled as he descended the stairs, and as he cleared the palace the sky opened up, pouring down on him. Aziraphale didn’t notice. His face was already wet.

He fell several times, blinded by the dark and by his tears, and it wasn’t until he dragged himself to the back doorway of the house and sobbed his heart out into his muddy knees that he realized he was missing a slipper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it helps, I was extremely morosely morbidly emotional writing this part of the fic, so it's not like I'm unaffected by it :P This bit in the film is just heartbreaking, I hope I did it justice.
> 
> Next chapter is going to be a bit short, which I apologize about, but it fits where the breaks are.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sad Zone continues, but with some slight looking up, hopefully.

Crowley was insensible of his surroundings until he found himself at his personal balcony, pacing, growling to himself. A servant. A _servant_. No wonder he’d never gotten Angel to tell him his name. What was the game, then? To make him look stupid when it came out that the Prince had been falling all over himself for a commoner? To start a war with Spain, maybe? Had Angel—had _that person_ ever even loved him at all?

“Like a lead balloon, indeed,” he growled.

“I hope you’re very proud of yourself, young man,” the fuming voice of Leonardo da Vinci said as the man himself followed, standing just inside Crowley’s chambers and glowering out at him. Thunder rumbled overhead, more insistently than before. “You have no idea the hell he went through to get here tonight, and you threw him to the wolves!”

“I’m a Prince of France,” Crowley snarled. “That comes with specific obligations.”

Leonardo said a word in Italian that even Crowley, with his academic negligence, understood. “You’re the stubborn lunkhead always trying to run from his specific obligations. You didn’t care at all until he—”

“He lied to me!” Crowley exploded.

“He came here, after his horrible stepmother the Baroness locked him up, I might add, to tell you the truth,” Leonardo argued. “What is life without love, if you throw it away like that?”

“And love without trust?” Crowley stopped pacing, instead bracing himself against the balcony parapet. He couldn’t look Leonardo in the face right now. “How was I supposed to react? To tell him, ‘oh, that’s alright, I don’t mind you lying to me for weeks and the foundation of our relationship being a lie, here, come meet my mum!’” Crowley said a few choice swear words of his own. “I didn’t even know his name. I didn’t know his _name_ , and I was ready to give myself over to him entirely.” And what a way to learn it, his brain whispered, and he shushed it.

Leonardo looked at him, clearly still incensed, but with a measure of patience that just made Crowley feel like he was being treated like a child. “That doesn’t mean the love wasn’t true, boy. If anything, you loved him enough to marry him without knowing his name; I should think learning both his name and where he comes from would be trivial in the face of knowing how much he loves you, too.”

Crowley curled his fingers into fists on the solid stone. “France has made its decision. I am a servant of the Crown and cannot yield.”

Leonardo sighed heavily as the rain began to come down in buckets. “Very well,” he said, and laid something on the battlements next to Crowley’s hand. “I suppose neither France nor you deserve him, then.”

The words stung far more than Crowley would have ever admitted. After Leonardo left, he looked to the side, his hair heavy and wet with rain. He saw a shoe. It was a well-crafted thing, sized for either a tall woman or a short man, silver and beaded and—yes, it was made of glass, he realized as he picked it up. The rain plinked off of it in musical chimes.

Crowley’s anger began to cool as the shoe reminded him of Angel’s—of Aziraphale’s—costume—so bright and effervescent, delicate and silver and winged. He had looked so beautiful, like a real angel. Crowley’s heart was still stuttering in his chest at the mere memory of the sight.

And then the terrible de-winging, forcing Angel—Aziraphale—to his knees. Baroness Michael, her voice harsh and cold. Aziraphale’s tear-filled ocean eyes, begging forgiveness, for understanding. Crowley fisted a hand in his hair and yanked.

She locked him away, Leonardo had said. Why? Crowley finally had the sense to get out of the rain and took the shoe with him, thinking. Leonardo said she was his stepmother. Baroness Michael said his angel was her servant. How much of that sadness that Aziraphale carried in him came from that alone? How much had Crowley willingly turned a blind eye to, because he hadn’t wanted to press Aziraphale for anything? Angel _said_ his father’s spouse didn’t treat him well—and there was the evidence, laid at his feet this evening.

He lied. Obviously. But how much was a lie, and how much was survival? How much was a commoner—a _servant_ —from a loveless home, trying to keep his head while an idiot prince barreled on attempting to woo him without ever even knowing his name? And there—at the first hurdle, so soon after his angel gave him the assurance to run, the confidence to fly, the impetus to get off his stupid duff and _try_ —

He had to find Aziraphale.

Hang on, the little voice in his head that sounded like his beloved said, be sensible. What would be best, to go off pulling Aziraphale from his circumstances, or making sure he had a place to pull him off to first? Queen Francis hadn’t given her blessing for Crowley to marry a commoner. Would she separate them, if Crowley tried to save him? Would she sell him, as so many were bought and sold in her name?

Crowley swallowed hard, pushing his wet hair back from his face. Okay. Priorities. First: make sure there was a sunset. Second: rescue his angel. Third: ride off into said sunset, and spend however long it took begging for forgiveness. He’d perfect that part of the plan later.

Crowley dripped on his rug and held the glass slipper and planned late into the night.

.

Aziraphale hadn’t felt this empty since his father died.

What use was there in complaining? In pining? He went about his chores with single-minded determination, ignoring the looks his fellows were giving him, acknowledging the soft inquiries about his health with polite smiles. He was fine. The Prince had made his decision, and as Aziraphale had always known, a servant could never hope to be worthy enough to stand beside royalty. They had shared a few cherished, beautiful moments. The Prince would make his alliance with Spain, Aziraphale would bury his broken heart again, and life would go on.

Baroness Michael, it seemed, had different ideas.

She cornered him, two evenings after his disgrace, while he was uprooting weeds in the garden. He hadn’t so much as glanced at her since she got home. He had thought the desire to pretend the other didn’t exist was mutual.

“I have it on good authority that the Prince had been planning on announcing Gabriel as his intended before your little embarrassment,” Michael said. Aziraphale paused to spit out some plant matter and ignored her. “As it is, I’m happy to tell you that you are not my problem anymore.”

“Is that all I’ve been, Stepmother?” Azirphale said, tired but angry enough to call her a title he hadn’t dared since age eight. “Your problem? All these years of cooking your food, washing your clothes, brushing your hair, cleaning out your—your _chamber pot_ , and _I’m_ a problem?”

Michael’s face had twitched horribly when he called her by her legal relation to him; now she was smiling unpleasantly. “What else would I call a pebble in my shoe?”

There were too many words, and Aziraphale no longer had the energy to even think them. He pushed past her and trudged up to the house, where he was confronted with the strange sight of Monsieur Hastur’s men unloading things from a cart—not just things, Aziraphale realized, his father’s belongings. Books, tapestries, furniture—it was all back, all the things that had been disappearing over the years and Michael had the gall to cut the others’ wages over.

“Couldn’t very well have us looking like paupers when the Prince came, now could I?” Michael purred over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Monsieur Hastur has been very agreeable.”

The man himself was leaning by his carriage, an odious pipe in his mouth, his flat dark eyes drawn to where Michael’s voice had carried and now fixed on Aziraphale. Aziraphale felt the same shiver up his spine that he always did whenever Monsieur Hastur looked at him—like he was being dissected, his separate parts assigned value and ready to be written off at a moment’s notice. Aziraphale gritted his teeth as Hastur began to lope over to them, his expression unchanging.

“Though, between us, I think I’m getting the better deal,” Michael said when Hastur was in range of polite conversation.

“Right,” Hastur grunted. He looked Aziraphale over again. “Come on, then, you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale said, his voice an octave or so away from a snarl.

“I’m a businessman, not a bloody philanthropist,” Hastur scowled. “All that, for you. Now in you get, we’ve a busy day ahead.”

Aziraphale stared at him uncomprehendingly until his arms were seized by two of Hastur’s men; then he cried out, writhed, screamed, and until knocked across the temple, did his best to escape and run back to his friends, who were holding each other and looking at him with mixtures of horror and anger. Pepper took several steps towards him before being restrained, herself; that was the last thing Aziraphale saw before blackness took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have seen the film have an idea of the scene that's coming tomorrow and I would encourage you to be a little excited about it, it's going to have a fun little spin on it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Leaving the Sad Zone!
> 
> See if you can spot the fairly obvious cameo of 10yrsyart's version of the book!GOmens Ineffable Husbands (https://10yrsyart.tumblr.com/post/189123745542/a-visual-guide-for-ann-beth-and-anyone-else)! I thought they worked nicely where they wound up!

Crowley, Crown Prince of France, considered dead-weighting himself and making the servants drag him around the morning of his wedding for a full hour before ultimately discarding the idea. Aziraphale wouldn’t have liked it if he made the lives of the working class so hard for such a silly reason.

(“My son,” Queen Francis had said, holding Crowley’s hand and sighing as he stared at her in disbelief, “we are out of time. Spain demands either the alliance, or war, and won’t budge. I’ve been trying for months, you know, not that you’ve made it any easier. But this is what it means to be a leader; it means you put the well-being and safety of your people above all else, even your own heart.”

“But,” Crowley had protested, not fighting the angry and bitter tears in his eyes, “but, Mother, I—I think I love him.”

“I know,” Queen Francis had sighed. “But right now, France needs its Crown Prince. Only Prince Crowley can save us from Spain’s armada. No matter how much it hurts, right now, it’s your heart, or our people’s heads.”

What could Crowley have done at that point but agree?

“Mother,” he had asked, “what did you sacrifice, when you became queen?”

Queen Francis had smiled and pet his hair. “You might not believe this, my darling one, but your hair had the potential to have come out much, much darker, once upon a time.”)

He mostly zoned out while he was dressed and painted and done up. He’d done all he could do while still keeping a reasonable frame of mind. At least Queen Francis had tried, too. Stupid Spain. Stupid treaties.

He heard the Princess of Spain before he ever saw them, loud cries ringing through the stone halls of the cathedral and shaking the rafters. They were a petite olive-skinned figure, drowning in a white and gold wedding gown with an elaborate tiara nestled on sleek dark hair and holding up a gossamer veil as long as their train and heavily embroidered and beaded to weight it down. Whatever eye makeup had been applied was running down the Princess’ face in dark rivulets, and their wailing was more than drowning out the Mass around them. On a normal day, Crowley would have been irritated by the breathless crying, but given the circumstances, it was all Crowley could do to keep from joining them. He cast his eyes about the cathedral and noticed, on Spain’s side of the church, a broad-shouldered, wheat-haired man staring at the floor and sniffling, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. That mightn’t have meant much—after all, Crowley was fairly certain the Baroness Michael and Gabriel were in attendance on France’s side and a glance in their direction revealed they were both dressed for a funeral rather than a wedding—but the desperate looks the Princess kept shooting the weeping man spoke the whole story. Crowley bit his lip. He regretted all the rude things he’d ever thought about the Princess personally in that moment.

The Princess’ sobs only grew louder and more frantic as Mass ended and the ceremony began. Their eyes were going to be bloodshot for days if they kept this up, Crowley thought, and as he helped them kneel before the altar in their enormous dress, the sobbing turned to desperate, heaving hyperventilation.

This…this was stupid.

Too early, Crowley stood, and pulled the Princess to their feet. He lifted their veil with some difficulty, ignoring the rapid Spanish begging being thrown at him as well as the whispers and echoes of shock from the audience.

“Madame,” Crowley said loudly, cutting across the Princess’ babble and gaining silence for the first time in over an hour, “I know exactly how you feel.”

He grinned at the Princess’ wide-eyed confusion, kissed their sopping cheek (they had nearly been married, after all, it only seemed polite), and pointed them in the direction of the weeping man, who had stopped weeping and was looking up with open shock. He glanced at Crowley for a split-second, grey-blue eyes softening and dimples appearing in his cheeks as Crowley nodded and gave the Princess a little push. The Princess needed no further encouragement to gather their ridiculous skirts and bustle as quickly as they could towards the broad man, who opened his arms to catch them as they threw themself at him. Crowley grinned as the crowd erupted with cries of surprise and outrage, undoing his cumbersome cloak as the Princess covered their lover’s face with eager kisses and he started weeping again. As Crowley made for a side-door out of the cathedral, he noticed the thunderous expression of the King of Spain, winked at the smug grin of the Queen of France, and broke into a run. His angel needed him—or, maybe he needed his angel, but either way Crowley was the one who had to apologize and had the power to go to wherever Aziraphale was, so either way he needed to move _now_.

To Crowley’s delight, by the time he made it out of the church, Warlock was already waiting there with Bentley, deep in conversation with the painter Crowley had once spoken to in a field to ask about first Leonardo’s and then his angel’s location—Adam, he thought the man’s name was.

“Where is he?” Crowley asked, Bentley’s reins in hand.

“Who? Gabriel?” Adam frowned. Crowley grimaced.

“Ang—Aziraphale,” Crowley shook his head, and tried to ignore the zing along his tongue from saying Aziraphale’s name out loud for the first time. “I know I messed up, I have to find him. I have to—I have to say sorry, and if he’ll have me, I’ll spend the rest of our lives trying to make it up to him. But I have to find him first.”

Adam looked to Warlock. Warlock nodded. Adam grinned, then looked back at Crowley with a sober face. “He was sold just after the masque.”

“Sold?” Crowley’s heart stopped, filled with visions of the wretches he had personally seen were not sold to the Americas and knowing that there had been thousands before—and would likely be thousands after—that he couldn’t reach. That Aziraphale could possibly be among them, his bright eyes and hair dirtied and smudged with despair and misery… “I—where? To whom?”

“Monsieur Hastur,” the painter said. Crowley growled in his throat. Angel—Aziraphale had not spoken highly of the man when he happened to come up in a conversation long ago.

“Right,” Crowley said grimly. “If anyone asks, you didn’t see me. We never spoke. Aziraphale’s safety depends on it.”

“Bring him home, sire,” Adam said, and Crowley swung up onto Bentley to distract himself from the chilling spine of steel in Adam’s words.

“Warlock, I need you,” Crowley said, and looked away while Warlock said his goodbyes. When Warlock was on his horse, Crowley urged Bentley into a gallop back to the castle, knowing Warlock was behind him. Time to enact one of his half-baked plans, starting with pinching something with his mother’s signature; Crowley’s own seal should be authority enough for a worm like Hastur, but better to leave nothing up to chance, in case Hastur somehow had ways around a Crown Prince’s rule.

Worse came to worst, Crowley could always fight Hastur for Aziraphale, but…well, for him, Crowley would exhaust all non-violent options first, never mind that Crowley was a rubbish fighter compared to Aziraphale himself, nor how much Crowley already wanted to strangle Hastur for his audacity. If he’d harmed one hair on his angel’s head….

.

Aziraphale had awoken in chains his first day on Hastur’s estate and had spent every day since hobbling through whatever chores Hastur had seen fit to give him. All in all, it wasn’t much different than home, though instead of pressing dresses and brushing hair, Aziraphale was polishing armor and swords that were more collectable than practical, all with Hastur’s flat black gaze watching him (Aziraphale supposed that explained Hastur’s obsession with getting Aziraphale’s father’s swords, and Aziraphale was relieved to find that he had hidden them well enough that Baroness Michael hadn’t sold them to him yet). Hastur didn’t speak much, which was both blessing and curse. Aziraphale couldn’t figure out for the life of him what Hastur actually wanted from him.

“Shut it,” Hastur said when Aziraphale asked point-blank on the third day. “You’re not here to talk, you’re here to work.”

“Yes, but why?” Aziraphale asked. “To what end?”

“Does it matter?” Hastur asked, refilling his pipe and lighting it. “Just do the work.”

And so Aziraphale worked, until well into the second week he had run out of things to do. He was still sleeping by a fireplace, though Hastur didn’t own a book in the whole manor, not even a Bible, that he could have read by ember-light. Aziraphale was quite certain he would either die of boredom or some freak accident with Hastur’s beloved displayed swords. Or perhaps one of his more ostentatious stuffed trophies, there were a few deer mounted in his den with antlers wicked enough for a nice impaling.

“I’m bored,” Aziraphale announced one morning, setting down a rapier and looking to his captor, who was sitting with his boots up on the dining room table and hadn’t moved all morning. “I thought I might run into town and peruse the marketplace. Perhaps buy some vegetables, we’re low.”

“Nah,” Hastur grunted.

“Monsieur, I cannot think that you purchased me just to watch me clean swords that have already been cleaned a thousand times and have never seen use,” Aziraphale crossed his arms.

“Didn’t,” Hastur shrugged. He stood, and walked towards Aziraphale, who took a wary step back when he stopped too close for comfort. “Not quite sure what to do with you yet,” Hastur confessed, and picked up a sword. “Could amuse myself by poking a few new holes in you.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “I’m not a plaything.”

“’course you are,” Hastur almost smiled. “Could start cutting up that soft face of yours. Could decide to just marry you and have some fun that way. Not much the marriageable type, me, but could give it a go. Play at being husband. Have my hubby make me breakfast in bed.” Hastur leered, and Aziraphale snatched up the nearest sword to him and in a swift motion knocked the rapier from Hastur’s limp hand. Hastur swore, and Aziraphale pointed the rapier to his throat.

“My father,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth, “was an excellent swordsman, Monsieur, and he taught me well. Since it’s clear you have no real plan for me and I do nothing for you but exist as a drain on your resources, you will release me and we will go our separate ways from here.”

“I could have you hanged,” Hastur breathed. “I could cut you to pieces myself.”

“Not if you are dead,” Aziraphale said smoothly, and just as quickly slashed Hastur across the cheek when he made a darting move to grab him. Hastur reeled back, hissing and swearing. “Let me go, or I swear on his grave, I will slit you from navel,” Aziraphale pointed with the rapier for effect, “to nose.”

Hastur stared at him, dumbfounded. Then he rolled his eyes and dug around in one of his pockets, and tossed a small iron key to the table.

“Have at it,” Hastur mumbled. “Hassle anyway.” Aziraphale didn’t move until Hastur wandered from the room, probably to mop himself up, and then quickly snatched up the key to start unlocking himself.

Aziraphale nearly took one of the swords but ultimately decided he didn’t want legitimate thievery as something Hastur could bring him in for, and he was quite happily exiting the manor and walking through the courtyard to exit the estate when out of the blue Prince Crowley galloped up on his sleek black horse, nearly toppling over as the horse reared and the Prince stared at him from several paces away. They blinked at each other, and Aziraphale thought the Prince smiled weakly at him.

“Hello,” the Prince said.

“Hello,” Aziraphale replied. The Prince got down off his horse and loped towards him, stopping well short of Aziraphale and looking unsure of himself. Given how they parted, that was fair, Aziraphale thought darkly, though he realized he wasn’t angry so much as…tired. “What are you doing here?”

“I, um.” The Prince cleared his throat. “I came to…rescue you, I suppose.”

“Rescue me?” Aziraphale huffed. “A commoner?” He shook his head, smiling a little at the improbability of it all, and was more than happy to continue as if they hadn’t spoken at all, walking past the Prince and towards the exit.

“Actually, I came to beg your forgiveness,” the Prince said, and Aziraphale stopped, but did not turn around to face him. “Could grovel, I’m learning to be quite good at that.”

“I’m not sure the look suits you, sire,” Aziraphale said over his shoulder. At the entrance Aziraphale saw that Captain Warlock was waiting on his own horse, and the captain nodded at him in a respectful sort of way. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to respond but nodding back seemed appropriate.

“I…I offered you everything,” the Prince said, “and—and at the first test, I blew it. I betrayed your trust, and myself, and if I could take it back, I…please, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched. He had to swallow hard against the violent wave of tears, and was utterly defenseless against the prickle of pleasure under his skin at the sound. He turned around and looked the Prince over. He was dressed more finely than usual, his hair bound back though coming loose, and beneath it all, he looked so haggard, so hopeless. Aziraphale’s heart swelled.

“Say it again,” he breathed.

“I’m sorry,” the Prince said immediately. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry—”

“No,” Aziraphale shook his head, smiling, his eyes shining. “The—the part where you said my name.”

Prince Crowley’s look of dawning comprehension gave way to a smile more brilliant than any previous smile Aziraphale had had the privilege of being dazzled by. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, clutching his heart. He never thought…his name had never sounded so beautiful before.

“I was hoping,” Prince Crowley said, bringing Aziraphale back down to earth, “that you could help me find the owner of this rather remarkable shoe.” Prince Crowley produced the missing glass slipper from somewhere, and Aziraphale stared, his other hand joining the first at his chest, as if both hands could stop his heart from running off. Prince Crowley took a few steps closer.

“Where did you find that?” Aziraphale gasped, only a little mortified to realize his throat had closed up a bit. He looked behind him and gently started backing towards a low wall running around the property. If he didn’t sit soon he was afraid he would swoon and find this all a dream.

“A very wise wing-maker scooped it up and knocked some sense into my head with it,” Prince Crowley said, following him at a respectful pace. “Its owner…he’s my match, on every possible level.” Aziraphale sat more because his knees had just given out over Prince Crowley’s intense amber gaze than out of any real desire to be sitting.

“It belongs to a servant, sire,” Aziraphale managed to sob, “who only pretended to be a courtier to save a man’s life.”

“I know,” Prince Crowley said gently, closing the distance and going to his knees. “And it’s Crowley, if you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale laughed and felt the tears start to pour down his face. Crowley gave him a lopsided grin that was no more dry-eyed than Aziraphale’s own watery smile, but his voice had the grace to remain steady.

“I don’t kneel and ask as a Prince, though if I am one, it’s only because you helped teach me how,” Crowley said quietly. “I kneel now as a man in love.” He reached forward and gently lifted one of Aziraphale’s feet—the one the slipper would fit on. Aziraphale covered his mouth to stop from weeping aloud. “And I would feel like a king,” Crowley said, his voice tender and soft as he slipped Aziraphale’s rough shoe from his foot, “if you would please do me the honor of being my husband.” He slipped the glass slipper in its place, and Aziraphale felt the weight of it all hit him directly in the chest. He had to take a minute to cry, because if he didn’t he would burst, but got control of it as soon as he physically could to sit up and smile as wide as possible. He threw his arms open, and Crowley rushed into them, embracing him and then lifting him, spinning him around in his arms with a surprising burst of strength. It was just as well they were both crying, for their faces got even more gross and wet as they couldn’t stop pressing kisses to each other’s mouths and cheeks. Aziraphale had truly never been happier in his entire life.

“Is that a yes?” Crowley asked when they had to stop to catch their breaths.

“Yes,” Aziraphale laughed, kissing Crowley a few more times. “Yes, you ridiculous man, you beautiful creature. Of course, yes.”

“Promise you’ll scold me every day of our lives?” Crowley murmured, nudging Aziraphale with his whole face and beaming.

“Even sometimes when you deserve it,” Aziraphale promised, and let Crowley swallow up his laugh with more tender kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I maintain that the bit in the film with the Spanish Princess is the funniest moment in cinematic history and that actress deserves an award for the several minutes straight of sobbing she manages. Google the scene if you have a minute, it's worth it.
> 
> Maybe Hastur's whole deal in this story turned out much sillier than it should have, but I maintain that having Hastur play the part of Monsieur le Pieu is all well and good until we get to the part where he's supposed to be more of a sexual predator and then I just...yuck. Didn't feel right. Hope it doesn't ruin the story, anyway.
> 
> One chapter to go, and a reckoning is on the horizon!


	12. Chapter 12

Baroness Michael was pleasantly surprised when the knock on the door turned out to be the Captain of the Royal Guard. This was a much better surprise than the ones she had been finding for the past two weeks—dead mice in the corners of her room, hairs in her food, a broomstick propped against her door as if someone had carelessly forgotten it and it just so happened to jam her bedroom door shut in the process—and it lifted her mood significantly.

“You are required at court, madame,” the captain said, indicating with flourish the royal carriage sitting outside. Baroness Michael’s eyes did not boggle out of her head, but it was a near thing. “The Queen has requested an audience specifically.”

“Is anything wrong?” Baroness Michael asked, looking around furtively for Ligur but not finding him among the royal coterie. That rankled a bit.

“No, madame,” the captain shook his head. “In fact, the Queen requested that you arrive in style.”

Baroness Michael couldn’t help the smile that curved up on her face. “Then in style we shall be,” she promised, and turned to start shoving her sons up the stairs as she closed the door.

Michael felt as though she was flying through the carriage ride to the palace. No doubt that silly Prince had finally realized his mistake; Michael had been, if not expecting, then at least hoping, for something like this to happen ever since Prince Crowley fled the cathedral through a side door. She had hugged Gabriel harder than she had in years over her joy at the wedding with the Spanish Princess (who really needed better taste, poor thing) falling through. Rumor had it that the King of Spain, when he had red-faced threatened the Queen of France with war if she didn’t find her son and make him go through with the wedding, coolly replied that if Spain was in such a hurry to join their kingdoms, she was widowed and so was he, and they ought to tie the knot themselves. Michael would bet money on that exchange being real, and on the King of Spain reportedly blushing like a delicate maiden at the insinuation. It was more likely that the Queen had suggested they betroth their grandchildren to each other instead, but the Queen was known for her sense of humor now and again.

It seemed as though all of Court was present when Baroness Michael floated into the throne room, Gabriel handsome behind her and Sandalphon lumbering after him, and they bowed just as she’d taught them as Michael sank to her knees in front of the Queen and looked up through her lashes, the picture of a genteel servant to the Crown. The Queen was even more spectacularly dressed then at Prince Crowley’s wedding, fully resplendent in red and gold, and by her Prince Crowley was lounging against the wall, wearing his crown at a rakish angle and smiling deviously. It seemed today was for full ceremony.

“Baroness Michael,” Queen Francis said in a commanding, regal tone, “did you, or did you not, lie to her Majesty, the Queen of France?”

Michael’s ears rang at the silence that followed this question, and her smile slid off her face as she swallowed bile.

“A—a mother would do practically anything, for love of a son, your Majesty,” Michael said meekly, wondering if she prostrated herself if she would avoid execution. “Perhaps…perhaps I did get a—a little carried away.”

“Mother, what have you done?” Gabriel said suddenly, stepping forward. “Your Majesty, like you, I am just a victim here—”

“How dare—” Michael stood and turned on her heel to Gabriel, who was whey-faced and staring wide-eyed at the Queen. “You _dare_ turn on me here, you little ingrate? After all I’ve done—”

“You see what I put up with?” Sandalphon said loudly, taking a step to the side. “You see how conniving they are, Majesty? It’s lucky you caught them—”

“Enough,” Queen Francis thundered, and Michael felt her own jaw snap shut under the power of the Queen’s command. “Are they always like this?” she asked, craning around to look at Prince Crowley, whose smile grew vicious.

“I was made to understand they’re usually worse, Majesty,” Crowley said. “I’m sure if we took the time to examine their every speech and action we’d find worse than ‘getting a little carried away.’”

“I’m sure,” Queen Francis snorted, and Michael drew herself up and opened her mouth, but Queen Francis spoke over her. “Baroness Michael, you are forthwith stripped of your title, and you and your horrible sons are to be shipped off to the nearest nunnery in need of some scullery hands at the first opportunity. Unless, of course, anyone here is willing to speak for you.”

Baroness Michael—or, rather, just Michael—felt her heart drop into her stomach as she backed from the throne, looking left and right at the people gathered here just to watch her fall from grace. Gabriel and Sandalphon followed her, wheedling expressions yielding no more results than Michael’s pointed staring at a few nobles she knew she should have been able to pull some strings with.

“I will speak for her,” a familiar voice called out, rich and strong, and Michael froze as another person entered the throne room. She turned, hardly daring to think it was real, and saw Aziraphale, the wretched child looking like neither in a brilliant cream tunic trimmed in blue that made his eyes stand out like the jewels in the pendant he wore—the same, unless Michael was very much mistaken, that Gabriel had returned to the Queen only a month past.

“I will speak for her,” Aziraphale repeated, his eyes never leaving Michael’s. “She is, after all, my stepmother.”

Michael flinched. Aziraphale took a step forward, and all of court bowed to him. Aziraphale took another step, and another, until he was staring up into Michael’s eyes with a confidence and self-possession she had never seen. Slowly, she sank to her knees and lowered her eyes.

“Your Highness,” she said softly.

“Gabriel,” Prince Crowley said from the other end of the throne room, and Gabriel jerked his head to look at him. “I don’t believe you’ve met my husband.” Gabriel’s head whipped back around, and, mouthing, he dropped to his knees, and Sandalphon followed. Michael couldn’t bring herself to look up at Aziraphale for longer than a moment or two at a time.

“I want you to know,” Aziraphale said quietly, “that after this moment, I will forget you, and never think of you again. But you, I am certain, will think about me every day for the rest of your life.”

“And,” Michael swallowed hard, trying to wet her throat, “how long…might that be?”

Aziraphale looked down at her, and Michael would swear there was pity in his face instead of all the things she would expect—hatred, rage, satisfaction, perhaps even just scorn, but no, all were absent. He looked up to the Queen. “All I ask, your Majesty, is that you bestow the same courtesy upon her that she has so lovingly bestowed upon me in my life.”

These words rang in Michael’s ears long after she, Gabriel, and Sandalphon had arrived at St. Beryl’s. They were her constant companion before sleep each night as she curled over her aching hands raw from washing the linens, and as she awoke each morning she heard their echo, before getting on her knees and scrubbing the floor. It would be nice to think that Michael took it to heart and learned to change her ways, but that might be giving her too much credit. At least she had her sons, who were every bit as disgusted with her and their situation as could be expected, and when they vanished into the night without her, Michael did not blame them. Cursed them, but did not blame them.

.

Leonardo da Vinci unveiled his latest painting with far more fervor than his small audience probably deserved, even if it did contain a Prince and a Prince Consort.

“Oh, Leonardo,” Aziraphale breathed as Anathema, Newt, and his other friends from home, including Adam and his fiancé Captain Warlock, applauded. The painting was breathtaking, a beautiful portrait of Aziraphale’s face as though rendered by dusk-lit clouds, golden and soft. “It’s beautiful!” Aziraphale embraced Leonardo with all the ardor of a dear friend, and Leonardo returned it with a smile.

“I thought it would make a nice belated wedding present,” Leonardo remarked.

“I must say,” Crowley drawled, “for all your skill, Leonardo, it doesn’t look a thing like him.”

Aziraphale turned on his heel and marched towards his husband with a warning smile, and Crowley grinned and let himself be backed towards the wall with no protest. “You, sir,” Aziraphale said, grabbing Crowley’s hands, “are supposed to be charming.”

“And we, my love, are supposed to live happily ever after,” Crowley warned. Aziraphale lifted his chin in a defiant sort of way, though his soft smile spoiled it.

“Says who?” he asked.

“One of your books, I’m sure, but if you’re asking about who specifically—” the rest of Crowley’s sentence was lost as Aziraphale kissed him like a storybook ending, passionate and sweet.

And while this particular Cinderella and his prince lived happily ever after, the point, dear reader, is that they lived—and that they loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap!
> 
> Thanks so much for going on this adventure with me, it's been a real treat!


End file.
